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RUE’S HELPS. 











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By MISS DRINKWATER 


— ♦ — 

I. Tessa Wadsworth’s Discipline. i2mo. $1.50. 

“ It is a long while since we have read a story which is more thoroughly 
satisfactory in every respect than this. To be sure it is only a love-story, but 
it is a love-story of a very high order, and one to be thoroughly indorsed. 
The style is vigorous and animated ; the descriptions are picturesque ; the con- 
versations are easy, natural, and suggestive ; and the characters are drawn with 
great fidelity to life ” — Christian Intelligencer. 

“ The charm is that the people in it all seem life-like, and the reader is 
caused at once to feel acquainted with them and to be interested in their for- 
tunes.” — Congregationalist, 

“ One of those bright stories arousing sympathy and interest in the nat- 
uralness of the characters and the charming manner in which the story is 
unfolded to the reader.” — Evening Mail. 

II. Only Ned; or, Grandmamma’s Lesson. i6mo. $1.25. 

“ The loving old grandma, hard aunt, bright cousin, true and tough Deacon 
Griggs, judicious schoolmaster, and boiling, bursting Ned Arrowsmith, are all 
true to life. We like them all.” — Christian Advocate. 

III. Not Bread Alone; or, Miss Helen’s Neighbors. i6mo. 
#1.25. 

“This is a charming book, designed to illustrate the relation of prayer to 
every-day life. — Baptist Union. 


IV. Fred and Jeanie, and how they learned about God. 
i6mo. $1.25. 

“ The author, as in her previous books, shows an intimate knowledge of 
child life, and the children that she delights in are very engaging.” — Christian 
Advocate. 


V. Rue’s Helps. $1.50. 


ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS. 


RUE’S HELPS 



BY 


JENNIE M. DRINKWATER, 

y 

AUTHOR OF “TESSA WADSWORTH’S DISCIPLINE,” ETC. 





“ ©fje fotll perfect tfjat bjtjtcfc concemetfj we.” 






NEW YORK: 

ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 

530 Broadway. 

1880. 

T 



■’t&'R'*- 


Copyright , 1880, 

By Robert Carter and Brothers. 


University Press: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

I. Waiting for the Mail 7 

II. Accepted after All 87 

III. At the Back Side of the Desert . . 122 

IV. Eventide 163 

V. Ever so many Things 175 

, VI. Hurrying Providences 226 

VII. What the Summer was to All . . . 252 

VIII. To-morrows 282 

IX. Paul’s Chamber 316 

X. Up the Lane 329 

XI. Geneva and Samokov 347 

XII. Home 378 











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* 










































RUE’S HELPS. 


i. 

"WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 

“ I suppose that we can’t help it,” mused Rue. 

She was kneeling on the home-made rug, 
before the fire on the hearth, rubbing off the 
few kernels that were left on the cobs : for 
Paul had said, when he brought in the basket, 
that he had no time for such nonsense ; if he 
turned the corn-sheller and brought the cobs 
into the house, that he had done his share 
towards kindling the sitting-room fire. Rue 
did not trouble herself or any one else about 
her “ share ” of work ; her share had always 
seemed to be all that she could find to do.. 

There was a huge back-log behind the and- 
irons, with a bed of coals and a few chips be- 
neath it. The room was not chilly, but Rue 
wanted a blaze; she was a trifle sore at heart 


8 


RUE'S HELPS. 


to-night, and the fire would be companion- 
ship, — the kind of companionship that would 
give all and ask for nothing in return, and 
just now she was in the mood for taking and 
not giving. She could revel in the light while 
it played over her face and hair and hands : 
it could not read the story that her eyes and 
lips were telling as Grace might, and Auntie 
certainly would ; and if it could not read it 
would never tell. She was not sure that Grace 
never told; indeed, she was almost sure that 
Grace did tell, for had she not more than a 
dozen bosom friends, while she herself had not 
even one, unless it might be Auntie, or the min- 
ister’s sister, Mrs. Willever. 

“ Well, I know 1 can’t help it.” Rue ended 
her thought with a sigh, and piled the cobs 
under the log. No one besides Auntie had 
noticed her new habit of sighing. If you had 
asked her what she could n’t help, she would 
have said, “Wanting things.” 

The day just lived through had been one of 
her most depressing days : her mother’s head- 
ache had been the excuse for an endless 
amount of fretting and fault-finding ; Paul had 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL, 


9 


been openly disrespectful to bis father, and the 
full hour’s reprimand, advice, scolding, abuse, 
which she had been compelled to listen to (for 
she and Paul and her father were in the 
kitchen) had worn upon her and taken her 
strength like the physical pain of a week. 
Paul had spoken quickly, and was ready to 
apologize ; but the long, harsh tirade, in which 
many things were unjustly urged against him, 
sealed his lips and hardened his heart. The dis- 
couraged look in his eyes smote Rue to the 
heart. She had trembled and choked as she 
washed the dishes and skimmed the milk, but 
had not possessed courage to speak. 

“ That boy will never be a Christian,” sighed 
her father, as Paul rushed out slamming the 
kitchen door. 

“ Perhaps he is easily discouraged,” she had 
said timidly, out of her bursting heart. 

Another thing that had made the day unusu- 
ally hard was that Grace insisted upon kin- 
dling a fire upon the hearth in the chamber 
they occupied together, and sitting there to 
“ make over ” an old dress, instead of coming 
down stairs to help her about the house-work ; 


10 


RUE'S HELPS. 


and then Auntie had not talked to her, but had 
kept thinking silently, and she did so want to 
be talked to ! She was faint with hunger for 
a good word. The day had held a disappoint- 
ment beside ; for Wednesday was her day of 
recitation at the Parsonage, and Mrs. Willever 
would think it so strange that she had not 
come. She was studying Mental and Moral 
Philosophy with her, and oh, what good times 
they did have together! She must give her 
mother’s headache as the excuse ; she could 
not say that Grace had refused to help in 
the kitchen. 

Rue was twenty-two and a half, — old enough 
to bear a depressing day bravely, only that 
years do not seem to have all to do with brave 
endurance. She had borne it in outward pa- 
tience ; but, “ Oh, please forgive me and make 
me sweet and good ! ” had many times swelled 
her heart with penitent tears. 

Rue had wanted things ever since she could 
remember : when she was five years old she 
had wanted pretty shoes; indeed, one of the 
severest trials of her childhood was the being 
denied a pair of bronze gaiters that her father 


WAITING FOR TIlF MAIL. H 

brought home when her mother had asked him 
to buy a pair of shoes. “ They are too expen- 
sive,’’ her mother had said ; “ you must take 
them back and get black ones.” Her heart 
would never sink again as it had sunk over 
that disappointment ; she had been wishing for 
bronze shoes, and here they were in her hand, 
and she could not have them. She could not 
comfort herself as she comforted herself in dis- 
appointment nowadays ; she had to bear it 
and forget it. She could not smile over the 
trial as she recalled it; she had not learned 
then to pray about things she wanted : she 
wondered, if she had prayed, if God would have 
given her the bronze shoes. He would not have 
thought them “ too expensive.” He did not 
think anything too expensive. Some day she 
would give some little girl a pair of bronze shoes, 
for the sake of that disappointed little Rue. 

When she was ten she had wanted one of 
the Lucy books, and she had wanted to have 
a party like Nellie Hyde, and an autograph 
album like another girl ; but she would not ask 
for things : her mother always made the same 
reply when she did ask, — “I can’t afford it.” 


12 


RUE'S HELPS . 


It was very depressing never to be able to 
have things because your mother “couldn’t 
afford it.” It was not the going without things 
that hurt her ; it was the never being able to 
“ afford ” anything. 

“ I ’ll never say that to my little girls,” she 
had often thought. “ I ’ll say, ‘ Mother does n’t 
think it best.’ ” 

When she was fifteen her one longing had 
been to go to boarding-school ; at sixteen, her 
most intense desire was to go on a mission to 
India ; at seventeen, she had wanted to teach 
school, study Hebrew and Greek, and travel 
all over the Holy Land; at nineteen, she had 
wanted, as girls will want to the end of time, 
to have some one love her. She had not read 
many love-stories, but she read life’s true sto- 
ries with wide-open eyes, and it must be good 
to have some one love you and believe you and 
help you. And now, at twenty-two and a half, 
she wanted, — what she did not want could be 
more easily enumerated, — she wanted every 
good thing that could be had on earth ; she had 
not yet learned to desire most of all and first of 
all the good things that come to us through the 
intercession of Jesus Christ. 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


13 


How many of those desired things she had 
had ! In one form or another they had come to 
her, all but the bronze shoes, the party, and the 
autograph album. She had been to boarding- 
school, she had crossed the ocean, she had taught 
school, and some one had loved her ; the grant- 
ing of this last desire had been greatly an annoy- 
ance, for he was not at all her ideal, — her ideal 
being a gentleman, a Christian, and a scholar. 
It was an experience to regret for his sake, and 
she sighed over it to-night, and would have 
wished that it had never happened, had she not 
felt that it was unsubmissive to wish anything 
changed that God had permitted to come to pass 
in her life. This thing she could not help ; it 
had been as startling to her — Well, she could 
not make any fitting comparison. He had gone 
a thousand miles away* and she had sighed and 
been sorry, and asked God to forgive her if she 
had done wrong, and then begun to think of the 
next thing. Her one absorbing desire now was 
that she might teach again, — that is, the one 
absorbing desire that she could put into words. 
There was another desire that she could not put 
into words; as well as she could express the 


14 


RUE’S HELPS. 


thought to herself it was like this : I want to 
do something and be something that shall use 
every faculty of my being, the best of me and 
the whole of me, — not anything mental, spirit- 
ual, physical, must be left unused ; nothing less 
will satisfy me. I have no idea what it is ; 
“ O God ! ” dropping her head into both hands, 
“ show me my life work, for Jesus’ sake.” 

“Now Jesus had compassion .” The words came 
as through a voice. Rising, she found the words 
in the little Bible that she kept in her work- 
basket, and wrote on the margin near them in 
pencil, “ Dec. 18, 18 — .” 

Would her heart have failed her could she 
have known the years and the preparation of the 
years before she could understand God’s hand in 
her life perfectly enough to write another date 
beneath it? 

She went back to the fire and piled on the 
cobs. “ Every man must live his own life out to 
the end.” That thought was all that she could 
remember of the last Sunday’s sermon. The 
knowledge that she might live her own life out 
to the end — her own distinct, individual life — 
was increasingly comforting to her. Grace lived 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


15 


in other people’s lives : she had heard her say 
that she did not live any real life of her own, 
with thoughts and plans in it ; that she was noth- 
ing at all to herself, she never liked to be alone, 
she wondered how people found anything inter- 
esting in their own lives. “ Then I don’t see 
what you live for,” Rue had replied. “ I ’m sure 
I don’t know,” Grace had said ; “ because I am 
born, I suppose.” 

Rue wanted a life all her own, as peculiarly 
her own as would be the promised white stone, 
and something was to be written on that, — a 
new name, that no one would know saving he 
that received it. 

Her prayer and the date in her Bible that she 
had just written were a secret between her and 
God ; when it was answered she would tell the 
one that she loved best all about it. 

Now she loved her father and Auntie and Lou 
Ire ton better than any one else in the world. 
Whom would she love best then ? Her thoughts 
ran hither and thither, without any attempt at 
control ; she was too wearied physically to guide 
her reverie. Usually she forced herself to think 
to some purpose ; but she had had a hard day, 


16 RUE’S HELPS. 

and would humor herself as she would humor 
Lou. 

The firelight played over a sorrowful face and 
drooping figure. She drew a chintz-covered foot- 
stool nearer, and, folding her arms upon it, laid 
her head within them, keeping her face toward 
the fire. The toes of her shoes, peeping from 
beneath the brown skirt, were worn and rubbed 
in many places ; her dress was shabby and faded ; 
it was partly covered by a pretty blue gingham 
apron, however, and the ruffle at her neck was 
unsoiled, and fastened by a round gold pin ; her 
hair was braided and wound around her head : 
she would have made a picture of a tired, neat 
little housekeeper. She was slight and not tall ; 
people usually called her “ little Rue Erskine.” 
She liked to be little and weak, if she might only 
be taken care of. 

“ People think that they know all about Rue 
Erskine, because her manner is so frank,” said 
Mrs. Willever to the minister one day; “but 
with that manner she throws them off. You 
think that she has been telling you all about 
herself, and then discover that she has not told 
you anything that you can take hold of.” 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


17 


“ A bewildering set of contradictions,” an- 
other friend described her. But what people 
said concerning her she did not know nor care ; 
she was given to thinking thoughts, and not 
given to thinking about herself. 

She could not tell any one about the things 
that she was longing for, but she could muse in 
the light of the fire, and the sympathetic light 
could play over the prophecy that the longing 
and the prayers were writing in her face, and the 
fire would not tell, and no one she knew could 
read her face. Some one was reading her life 
in her face, in the changes in her voice, in her 
work at home and in the homes of the village, 
but she was not aware of that ! She would have 
sprung to her feet startled, bewildered, and not 
at all pleased, had it been revealed to her at 
that moment who it was that was as interested 
in her life as she was herself, and who it was 
that she would choose to tell about the prayer 
that she had dated. As startled and bewildered 
and as little pleased as you and I would be, per- 
haps, if God should give us a glance at a name 
that he has written in our lives. “ O Hue, you 
field-daisy ! ” Grace had exclaimed that day. 


18 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Grace was three years older, and worldly wise. 
The fire blazed around the chips and cobs, and 
curled under and over the rough back-log. 

“ I suppose there ’s a reason why I ’m always 
wanting things,” she said aloud, speaking to the 
bit of flame that played in and out a gnarled 
root. “ I hope that I ’ll live to find out what 
it is. Oh, how I want to find out things ! Ah, 
deary me ! ” 

Auntie, speaking of Rue to the minister that 
afternoon, had called her “unformed.” Auntio 
loved Rue so dearly that she was apt to talk 
about her to every one. Rue was Auntie’s 
heroine. 

“ Hardly that,” he had replied thoughtfully ; 
“ she is forming. Her face wi^l be worth look- 
ing at before she is thirty ; she is too variable 
and impressible now for any mood to stay long 
enough to mould her features. Her face is a 
prophecy to-day, by and by it will be a his- 
tory.” 

The minister called often ; he had told Auntie 
that many of his sermons were suggested by her 
fresh rendering of old thoughts. Very often 
Rue was too busy to see him; this afternoon 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


19 


she had been mending bags that her father might 
take a load of potatoes to town, and there were 
so many and the holes were so large that she 
could not spare an hour for him. That had been 
another disappointment in her hard day. As 
soon as he entered the gate she had thought, 
“Perhaps he has a word for me.” “Bags 
ready?” her father had called out that very 
instant. Grace did not like to mend bags. 

If the minister had not had a word for her, he 
had had a word about her. Auntie would never 
repeat it, of course ; she was striving to pre- 
vent Rue from being self-conscious. Rue would 
hardly have been pleased with it ; it was equal 
to thinking her colorless and expressionless, and 
if there were anything that she hated with all 
her power of hatred, it was inanity. Rue was 
an excellent hater ; at this time I fear that she 
hated evil rather more than she loved good. 

This expressionless face was little to look at 
unless with the eyes of love. She was never 
numbered among the pretty girls of the village ; 
rounded, tinted cheeks, full lips, a low forehead, 
around which the light-brown hair grew pret- 
tily, large eyes, dark and very blue, with short 


20 


RUE'S HELPS. 


eyelashes, and eyebrows lighter than her hair 
and delicately pencilled, a fair, refined face, with 
some pride, and as much will as gentleness in it, 
womanly to those who could read, but very plain 
and unattractive to the many who could not 
read it. 

Auntie could read it, and the minister and his 
sister thought that they could. Rue was much 
in all their thoughts ; they looked forward to the 
woman that she might be if nothing and no one 
hindered, — if she did not hinder herself. She 
was herself as God had begun to make her, and 
as she was helping him to make her. She did 
not know that she was helping him to make a 
womanly woman out of his thoughts towards 
her ; sometimes she did not know that he was 
helping her. 

If she could have understood the longings of 
her childhood and youth, she would have under- 
stood that he was making her out of herself ; 
the seed that would, in his time, grow into per- 
fection was all within herself. 

Is not the kingdom of God within us ? 

If she could have understood herself to-day, 
she would have had a glimpse of the woman 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 21 

that she would become, and the work that she 
was being fitted to do. 

She wondered sometimes to herself, “How 
can Jesus think about me and love me ? ” Her 
weary heart would have been less weary to- 
night, had she known that he was thinking of 
her, not only as she was, but as she would be- 
come ; the thought would have helped her bear 
with herself. She did not love herself, to-night. 

In her childhood the things that she had been 
most afraid of were untruthfulness and disobe- 
dience ; the things that she had most wanted 
were books, to travel, to be loved, and to be 
good. 

In her reverie an incident of her childhood 
floated through her mind. She was spending the 
day with Nellie Hyde, and, in playing tag around 
the woodshed, had caught the skirt of her dress, 
and made an ugly rent. “ Let me mend it for 
you,” Nellie’s mother had said ; “ your mother 
need never know anything about it.” “ Would 
n’t that be a lie ? ” she had asked. She had for- 
gotten the reply ; she only remembered that the 
lady had dropped the dress out of her hands. 

A scolding that her mother had given her 


22 


RUE'S HELPS. 


that morning over some trivial household task 
reminded her of a similar scolding in childhood. 
She would not have remembered it, only, be- 
lieving that she was in the right, she had uttered 
no word of self-justification. It was about such 
a little thing, too. Her mother, sending her on 
an errand, had said, “ Go out the back gate and 
down the hill.” She was accustomed to going 
out the front gate, but unquestioningly she had 
opened the back door, crossed the yard, and 
with an effort pushed at the back gate until it 
flew open. Her mother’s voice in harsh dis- 
pleasure recalled her. She remembered stand- 
ing silent in the middle of the room while her 
mother scolded her for going out that gate. 
She had never been forbidden to go out that 
way ; she could not understand how she had 
disobeyed ; all her thought through the flow of 
words was, “ I know that I heard her tell me 
to go that way.” 

Unquestioning obedience had been the habit 
of her childhood ; unquestioning obedience to 
God had become a habit thus early in her 
womanhood. She never wondered why she 
must obey him ; she never cared to know the 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


23 


reason why he let so many things in her life be 
hard ; her only wonder was, “ What does he 
want me to learn by this ? ” 

In her love of all knowledge was the germ of 
her hunger to know about God. The little girl 
who had longed for books and travel with the 
same longing now yearned for the knowledge of 
God. 

Rue Erskine at twenty-two was Rue Erskine 
of ten grown up. She had kept the heart of her 
childhood, not because any one had thought of 
it or cared about it, but because the blessing of 
the pure in heart to see God had been given to 
her. She had seen him always, whether happy 
or troubled; but she did not know that the 
good that she saw was God. 

More than once she had been asked at what 
age she had been “converted.” She thought 
that it was the Sunday afternoon that her heart 
had glowed with love to Jesus Christ while she 
was reading “ Judah’s Lion,” but I think that it 
was in the earlier days when she had hated a lie 
and loved obedience. 

In girlhood her two most earnest prayers had 
been, “Make me pure,” “Make me patient.” 


24 


RUE'S HELPS. 


The latter had grown out of a remark of a 
teacher at school : “ Miss Erskine, you have the 
most impatient nature that I ever met.” 

In retrospect she could think of these things ; 
but the fears and longings of the present were 
too near to be handled and turned over and 
over. She knew that she desired to be and to 
do all that was within her to do and to become, 
and she knew that her one absorbing love at 
this time was love, not of children, but of child- 
hood, — a love, however, that held to its heart 
every little child in all the world. 

She was glad to remember a parting wish that 
a little fellow had written upon his slate for her 
in her last day in the village school-house : 
“ May you always have children to teach.” 

She had asked each of the children to write a 
wish for her ; all the others she had forgotten. 
She had not forgotten her hour there alone that 
afternoon, in which she had cried out with 
eager heart and steadfast faith, “ Oh, please 
let me teach again ! ” 

That prayer had not left her heart and 
scarcely her lips since, and that was over a year 
ago. When she read of answered prayers in the 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


25 


religious papers or in the Bible, or once in a 
while heard some one speak of an answered 
prayer, or when the minister spoke of prayer, 
as he so often did, her one thought was of her 
intense prayer that she might teach again. She 
was working with her prayers, taking all her 
leisure for study, beside studying with Mrs. 
Willever one afternoon in every week. She had 
reviewed every old school-book in the house ; 
then, while thinking what she could do to earn 
new books, Mrs. Willever had offered to lend 
her every book in the Parsonage library. Mrs. 
Willever in herself was an education to Rue. 
Still, despite her working, her praying, and 
working with her prayers, increasingly dark 
was the prospect of a favorable answer becom- 
ing : her mother’s health was failing, Paul was 
going away from home to learn a trade, and 
G race — why, of course Grace would be mar- 
ried some day. Auntie was a comfort to them 
all, but she was not able to help about the 
house. The Lord did not seem to be doing 
anything with her prayer, and he must have 
listened to it, and have been so sorry for her 
every day and night through a long year. A 
year was a long time to Rue. 


26 


RUE'S HELPS. 


She hoped that she was not wearying him 
with her importunity ; as long as the desire was 
in her heart she must pray about it ; she would 
not have so little confidence in him as to keep 
any thought away from him. The minister had 
said that to Auntie one day, or if not quite that, 
something that suggested it to her. She did 
not like the minister ; she wished that she did 
like him. She admired the courtesy of his man- 
ner, his perfect refinement, and she liked his 
voice; it was low, sweet, solemn, and rever- 
ent. She liked his scholarly head ; she imagined 
that heads like his must have made the West- 
minster Catechism. He kept himself apart from 
his people ; she could not bring any charge 
against him except that he was not her ideal of 
a pastor. St. John and St. Paul were her ideals. 
One day he had made the remark, “ Since I 
have had the gift of faith,” and she had stood 
rather in awe of him since. If he had the gift 
of faith he must have everything he wanted ; 
when she could summon sufficient courage she 
would ask him. She had formed a wicked habit 
of thinking of something else while he was 
preaching, that is, whenever the subject did not 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


27 


seem to fit into her own special need. Bnt if 
she did not like him she loved his three mother- 
less little girls as she did not love any children 
in the village ; they had been her pupils in day 
school, and the eldest was now in her Sunday- 
school class. Grave, studious Lou, a perfect 
little lady, was as shy and lovable as any child 
of thirteen could be ; frolicsome Persis was ten ; 
and plump, sturdy, conscientious Nannie was 
eight years of age. She had loved their mother 
in her short stay among them, — she had died 
within the first six months of her husband’s pas- 
torate in Geneva, four years since. A widowed 
sister of the pastor was housekeeper and home- 
maker at the Parsonage ; she had never had a 
child of her own until her brother’s motherless 
little girls became her own. 

All this and more beside had a place in Rue’s 
reverie. There may have been a thread on which 
her thoughts were strung, but they seemed to 
her confused and aimless ; it may have been 
that she was partly asleep, for a spark flying 
out and touching her dress brought her to her 
feet. The hearth must be swept, and the basket 
that had held the cobs must be taken away. 


28 RUE'S HELPS. 

Where had she been all this time ? With a 
long breath, that Grace would have laughed at 
as sentimental, she shook the dust of the cobs 
from her skirt, and brushed up the hearth. 

“ O Rue, you are very fresh ! ” Grace often 
laughed, when Rue aired her opinions con- 
cerning life in general, and life in Geneva 
in particular ; “ one would think that you had 
been brought up in the woods.” 

How could Grace know that Rue’s freshness 
and sweetness were the answer to her prayer, 
“Make me pure”? She had been kept un- 
spotted from the world, pure from worldly aims, 
pure from self-seeking. 

As she replaced the little broom in the chim- 
ney closet, she caught a glimpse of the sunset 
over the village. 

“ Rue’s Parish,” Grace called Geneva. 

It was a winter sunset, but the day had been 
unusually mild. The long golden belt of light 
shone through hazy air; there was a bank of 
dense clouds above the golden belt that might 
betoken rain ; above the dense clouds arose 
waves of palest light. In the hazy distance she 
could discern only the outlines of the village 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL , . 


29 


buildings ; the square tower of the church stood 
out against a patch of brightest gold ; roofs, 
chimneys, a network of bare branches, against 
the background of ever-brightening gold. She 
knelt in the broad window-seat, watching the 
brightening and fading of the belt of gold, until 
nothing was left of brightness, nothing left but 
the dark clouds, the indistinct outlines, and the 
haziness over the brown fields. 

“ Dear little Geneva ! ” she exclaimed, “ I am 
glad that the sun sets over you.” 

“ Come along here ! Hey ! you there,” cried 
a voice behind the white cow, the cow without 
horns, and the three red cows that were walk- 
ing leisurely into the cow-yard from the road. 
Paul had been driving them down to the brook. 
He had been looking at the sunset too. He and 
Rue were very much alike ; Paul was what 
Rue would have been without study and dis- 
cipline. 

Many of life’s hard lessons they had learned 
from the same book ; not together, for both 
were reticent, and each lived within them- 
selves. They had a way of understanding one 
another that puzzled Grace ; neither ever 


80 


RUE'S HELPS. 


needed any explanation of the other’s mood or 
course of action. When Rue said, “ Paul is 
thinking to-day, he can’t decide,” or “ He feels 
better now that he has decided,” Grace would 
look at him, and, observing no sign of conflict 
or evidence of peace, would wonder what Rue 
could mean. Often when he was quietest, Rue 
would say, “ He is happy to-day,” and when he 
was in his wildest gale of nonsense, she would 
say, “ The boy is troubled to-day.” Grace had 
come to believe that Rue had a sixth sense ; it 
was queer about Rue. She often reminded her- 
self of the first time that the new schoolmaster 
called, and seemed taken with Rue, that Rue 
had laughed as soon as he was gone, saying, 
“ It is n’t that he likes me, but I look or talk 
like some one that he does like,” and “Sure 
enough,” Grace would say, “ in less than a year 
he brought a wife from out West, the very pic- 
ture of Rue ; people all said so as soon as they 
saw her.” 

Grace had another story to tell about Rue. 
After having received five letters from a stran- 
ger, in which the lady said nothing about her- 
self, she asked Rue to write her impressions of 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


31 


her unseen correspondent. Rue was willing to 
try to write a description of the picture that 
she had formed ; describing color of hair, color 
of eyes, manner, voice, way of talking. “You 
are a witch, are n’t you ? ” the letter in reply 
began ; “ you have made but one mistake, — you 
called me sallow, I am fair.” “ How did you 
do it ? ” Grace had asked curiously. “ I did n’t 
do it,” laughed Rue ; “ she could n’t be anything 
else ; I found it all in her letters.” 

Paul put up the bars while Rue was looking 
out, and came through the yard around to the 
kitchen for the milk-pails. His step was slow 
and heavy, and he was not whistling, as usual ; 
if Paul could have known what a difference his 
whistling made in Rue’s life, he would have 
whistled whether he felt like it or not. 

The sunset having gone, she came back to 
the fire ; the blaze had died down, the bright- 
ness in fire and sky had left her. The room was 
not cheery when the light of the fire was away ; 
it was not cheery now. Rue could not think of 
anything cheery anywhere. 

When her father was stern, her mother low- 
spirited, Grace selfish, and Paul sullen, Rue 


32 


RUE'S HELPS. 


wished that she could run away ; that would be 
so much easier than staying at home and bear- 
ing it. She stood on the rug before the fire, 
not trying to stir it into a blaze, and looked 
around the room. It was a long, narrow, low 
room, containing three small windows cur- 
tained with white dotted muslin fastened back 
with scarlet cord ; the floor was covered with a 
dingy rag-carpet ; the dark paper upon the walls 
was as dingy as the carpet ; there were two 
pictures in cheap gilt frames, — one an engrav- 
ing of a scene in the life of Napoleon, with 
a paragraph in French printed beneath; the 
other a ship under full sail, with gold letter- 
ing beneath : “ Ship Peerless, of Boston, Paul 
Erskine, Commander, passing Flushing, May, 
1843.” 

An extension-table stood in the centre of the 
room ; under the looking-glass was set a round 
table covered with a crimson cloth, on which 
books and newspapers were piled; a faded 
lounge occupied the space under one window, 
and in the recess where the broad window-sill 
was, stood a small rocker and a wicker work- 
table ; several cane-seated chairs and a side- 


% 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 33 

board completed the furniture. On the centre 
of the mantel stood a clock, and on either end 
a large pink-lined shell. The bit of plaster in 
the fancy box had been taken from the room 
in which it was said that Columbus was born ; 
the box itself had been purchased in Austria. 
It held, also, a piece of lava that her father had 
picked up on Mt. Vesuvius. The bits of brim- 
stone were from Sicily ; and the two hideous 
little iron figures were gods, that a missionary 
in Burmah had given to her father. “ The man 
who brought them to me,” said the missionary, 
“ told me that his grandfather worshipped 
them.” Under one end of the mantel hung 
the Farmer’s Almanac ; under the other end 
an ironing-holder, made of red flannel with a 
black flannel kitten stitched upon it. 

Over the looking-glass Rue had twisted, in 
and out over the cord, arbor-vitse and the red 
berries of the burning-bush. 

When her father was gentle, her mother 
placid, Grace full of life, Paul contented, and 
Auntie as sunny as she always was, this room 
was the very heart of home to Rue. It needed, 
also, that her own heart should be at rest, as it 
3 


34 


RUE'S HELPS. 


was not often nowadays. She felt as if some- 
thing were wrong somewhere, because God had 
not given her a school in answer to her praying. 
Would fasting help along any? She had tried 
it more than once, and then, out of sheer faint- 
ness and discouragement, betaken herself to her 
food. A week ago she had decided to fast in 
part, and as butter was the thing she could 
least comfortably do without, she had not 
tasted butter since. She was not strong : hard 
work and repeated disappointments, as well 
as anxiety, were taking her strength ; the days 
in which she could not eat bread without 
butter were physically and therefore mentally 
exhausting. The fasting was a forlorn hope ; 
but Christ had said, “ When ye fast,” taking it 
for granted that his disciples did fast, and she 
had read of fasting in religious biographies. 
Auntie had known an old lady who had twice 
fasted forty days, and had once become so low 
that her life was despaired of ; her only food 
during this time having been warm water and 
a cracker once in a while. Rue had eagerly 
asked if she received the thing that she had 
prayed for. “No: she was praying that her 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 35 

brother’s mind might be restored ; but he died 
in the Asylum, notwithstanding her water and 
crackers.” 

God did not accept water and crackers then ; 
what else could she do ? The sigh would have 
ended in tears but for the opening of a door- 
Auntie always opened a door softly. 

“ Oh, Auntie, coming for a talk, I know,” ex- 
claimed Rue, feeling as if the sunset were still 
in the sky and the fire blazing. “ Now talk to 
me, and help me not to be wicked.” 

She moved the rocker to the fire for Auntie, 
and seated herself upon the footstool at Auntie’s 
knee. 

“ You remind me of Hannah,” said Auntie ; 
“ she always liked to cry in my lap.” 

Hannah was not crying anywhere now ; all 
her tears were wiped away. Rue and Rue’s 
father were all that Auntie had left to love very 
much. She was a tall, straight old lady, near- 
ly fourscore, with the whitest of white hair 
brushed smoothly back under the plainest of 
widow’s caps ; her dress was ever the same, 
some black material, and she always wore 
a gingham apron, every Sunday morning and 


36 


RUE'S HELPS. 


every Wednesday morning putting on a clean 
one. Paul said that he knew when it was Sun- 
day, because Auntie put on the apron with 
pockets on Sunday, — one pocket to hold her 
spectacles, the other her lumps of loaf sugar. 

“ Your burning-bush is almost faded, child,” 
said Auntie, unrolling her long blue knitting- 
work. 

“ Yes,” said Rue, glancing through the win- 
dow at the crooked tree. “ I had a whim about 
that burning-bush ; in the spring, when the 
leaves v r ere coming, I said often to myself, 
‘ When the berries are red and the green leaves 
fallen off I shall have my school ; ’ and now it 
seems as far off as when the buds were green. 

Oh, Auntie, I can’t see why ; can you? ” 

% 

Auntie stooped to toss a chip into the fire. 
“ I do not always see why, my dear, but I 
always try to.” 

“ Oh, do see why for me, then. I am as blind 
as blind can be.” 

“I was thinking this morning — ” Auntie’s 
voice had a long thought in it. She brushed 
the dust off her fingers and took up her knit- 
ting ; she could talk more easily w T ith busied 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 37 

fingers, even as Rue could listen more easily 
with idle fingers. 

“ I was thinking this morning,” she repeated, 
“ that it requires a long preparation to make us 
ready to receive the knowledge of God’s will. I 
confess that I was thinking of your several dis- 
appointments, and I thought by your face at 
breakfast that you were not taking his prepara- 
tion kindly.” 

“ I want to take it kindly,” said Rue, ear- 
nestly. 

“ You are very fond of learning and study ; 
now tell me what you care most to learn about.” 

Rue hesitated. Her latest reading had been 
Geology. 

“ I asked myself that question sixty years ago, 
and decided that I cared most for the knowl- 
edge of God’s will, and for sixty years he has 
been showing it to me.” 

“ How ? ” asked Rue. 

“ By his Word, his Spirit, and his providences.” 

“ His Word,” repeated Rue ; “ that is what he 
says to just me in the Bible. I am not so sure 
about his Spirit ; how am I to know when I am 
guided by his Spirit? ” 


38 


RUE’S HELPS. 


“ His Spirit could not tell you to do anything 
contrary to his Word or his nature ; his Spirit 
would not bid you to do anything that it would 
be sin to do, that it would be wrong for J esus 
Christ to do if he were living in your home 
here in Geneva. You know what the fruits of 
the Spirit are ; any action or thought that har- 
monizes with the fruits of the Spirit must be 
dictated by the Spirit. If you pray that you 
may not grieve the Spirit, be sure that he will 
never let you. Every suggestion must come 
from one of three sources, — from Satan, from 
your own heart, or from the Spirit. Satan cannot 
suggest good ; your own heart, of itself, cannot 
suggest good ; ‘ Out of the heart comes evil,’ the 
Lord said. If the suggestion be in accordance 
with what you know of God’s heart, it must 
come from him. There is a way of finding out. 
God does not speak in an unknown tongue to 
his little children. Mr. Ireton does not speak 
in Greek to Nannie when he bids her do some- 
thing for him.” 

“ But, Auntie, I don’t know whether my 
panting a school is from the Spirit, or not,” said 
Rue, looking troubled. 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


39 


“ One of the fruits of the Spirit is love — ” 

“ Then I ’m sure ; for it is out of love to 
children, out of love to teaching, out of love to 
knowledge in itself, and out of love to the peo- 
ple at home, for if Grace would take my place 
I could earn something. I am not aware of 
any other motive. Sometimes I do want to get 
away from home, — but that’s wicked, and I 
try not to.” 

“ How about his providences ? ” asked 
Auntie. 

“ I don’t understand them at all, if you mean 
the things that he lets happen.” 

“ That is just what I mean ; the happenings 
that he permits and the happenings that he 
wills. The Spirit often speaks low, but the 
providences are a loud voice.” 

“ A loud voice speaking Greek,” said Rue. 

“ If he do speak in Greek you must study 
Greek, that you may understand ; when he has 
spoken to me in Greek I have taken it as a 
sure sign that he meant me to study Greek. I 
think that some other happenings would throw 
light upon your happenings. The Bible is the 
key to every life on earth, the dictionary that 


40 


RUE'S HELPS. 


will translate for us the unknown words in our 
lives. Shall we look out a word ? ” 

“Yes,” said Rue, earnestly; “look out the 
words that hinder my teaching. They are all 
Greek to me.” 

“ God must be thinking of you to give you 
such hard words ; he is taking a great deal of 
trouble with you, Rue.” 

“ I don’t want to disappoint him, then.” 

“ Do you want to know his will concerning 
you, or would you rather will all your own 
life?” 

Rue dropped her head into her hands for one 
minute. “ I have decided for all time and for 
all eternity,” she said very slowly, raising her 
head. “ I am willing to walk by faith.” 

“ Then, if you are willing, and God is willing 
it also, fear nothing, shrink from nothing, — go 
on ! And if he bring you to fourscore, may it 
be as joyfully as I have been brought! Now I 
will tell you about my thought. When your 
father read at prayers this morning that in the 
third month, when the children of Israel were 
gone forth out of the land of Egypt, the same 
day they came into the wilderness of Sinai, I 


V 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 41 

thought of you and some other people who are 
travelling a roundabout journey before they can 
camp at the foot of the mount where God will 
speak plain words to them. He gave his law to 
this people, and he is waiting to give his law 
to you.” 

“ Nothing is plain now but that he will not 
give me what I want.” 

“ Suppose we think of what he wants. 
Prayer is something better than getting what 
we want; it is getting what God wants.” 

“ Then don’t we ever get what we want ? 
Oh, Auntie, you do teach such hard things.” 

“ My dear, it is a small thing whether or not 
you teach, but it ’s a great thing whether or not 
you learn.” 

“I haven’t thought about that; I thought 
that I was ‘ called ’ to teach.” 

“ So }'Ou are, I truly believe, in one way or 
another. Just now you are ‘called’ to learn 
God’s will. You cannot do it until you have 
learned it, any more than you can teach gram- 
mar without learning it. You are like those 
Israelites that started out ; they were ‘ called,’ 
too. They thought they were called to go to 


42 


RUE'S HELPS. 


the Promised Land, they had that one idea and 
could n’t think of anything else ; if they got 
there it was all they wanted. I suppose that 
after they got safely through the Red Sea they 
thought that the way was as clear as it is over 
this carpet. God had done such wonderful 
things for them that he would keep on doing 
them, and they would never have to make bricks, 
or be hungry or thirsty or tired or frightened 
or oppressed any more ; they would find every- 
thing done and ready for them, and so they 
went on in jubilant spirits, no doubt, for three 
days, — long enough to get to Canaan, commen- 
tators say, — but God led them by a 4 right 
way ’ that was very crooked, and what lovely 
and easy things did they find at the end of these 
three days ? They were thirsty, and of course 
expected to find springs of clear, cool water. 
But they found instead no water . The very 
commonest blessing of life had failed. The 
Egyptians who worshipped idols had plenty of 
water, but they who had left all for the one 
true God had not a drop to drink. In follow- 
ing the fire by night and the cloud by day they 
had come to a place where no water was.” 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


43 


“ I thought that when we obeyed God we 
were led into good things,” cried Rue in aston- 
ishment. 

“So we are; but God’s definition of good 
things is n’t quite like yours and mine. Obe- 
dience leads us into very tight places some- 
times. It led these thirsty people into a place 
without water. And there were plenty of little 
children among them, too. How. your heart 
would ache if all the little children in Geneva 
were thirsty, and you could not give them a 
drink of water ! Jesus loved these little chil- 
dren then just as well as he loved the little 
children whom he blessed in the Promised 
Land. The same blood ran in their veins ; but 
those he blessed, and these he let go thirsty. 
And then, with no water to give them strength, 
they marched on to Marah, — to find water, 
sure enough, poor souls, but it was so bitter that 
they could not drink it ; how much worse than 
having no water at all! How it must have 
mocked their thirst as it touched their dry lips ! 
I think that it is harder for God to give us bit- 
ter water than no water at all! ” 

Rue spoke quickly. “ That march to Marah 


44 


RUE'S HELPS. 


was like the call I had to teach at Hazel Dell ; 
how I did want it! I like to teach boys. But 
father wouldn’t let me go. He said that he 
had reasons; but he wouldn’t tell me, — that 
made it harder. I cried myself exhausted that 
time. But I could n’t have loved those boys 
like my Geneva boys. There are six boys in 
Geneva that I had in the winter school that I 
love as well as I love Paul. They call them- 
selves my boys. But I can’t hold them. Hav- 
ing but not holding is like bitter water, Auntie. 
Mr. Taylor teaches them in Sunday school, and 
he ’s about as much good as a stick. They are 
very unruly, and he dislikes them all ; he is 
trying to do his duty without love. I can’t see 
why I can’t do good to those boys. I thought 
that perhaps the superintendent would offer 
me the class, but he thought that they were 
so wild they needed a gentleman. I wonder, 
Auntie, if it would be wicked for me to pray 
that I may have that class. Mr. Taylor wants 
to shirk it.” 

“ God will not give it to you if it ’s wicked 
for you to have it,” said Auntie, smiling. 

“What did the people do at Marah? Did 
they cry as hard as I did?” 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


45 


“ I think they did ! They murmured ; your 
tears may have been without murmuring. They 
said, 4 What shall we drink? ’ ” 

“ I ’m afraid I did murmur. I did think that 
God didn’t care.” 

“ The Lord did care for them, and for the 
cattle as well, and told them what to do to heal 
the bitter water.” 

“ That ’s a new thought,” cried Rue, her whole 
attitude changing. “ I believe I have been for- 
getting that God would change things ; I knew 
that he could, but I did not think that he 
would. Lately I have forgotten that there was 
anything in the world to do but to bear” 

“When things can’t be endured they must 
be cured. Don’t you know how to twist the old 
proverb ? I have watched your face and voice 
for a long time, child ; life is n’t all endurance . 
God loves to change things when we are ready 
to have them changed. Life is bitter some- 
times, that we may learn to ask him to make 
it sweet. And here ’s another lesson : how he 
made it sweet. It did not turn sweet at his 
command only, but Moses had to work himself ; 
the Lord showed him a tree that he must cast 


46 


RUE'S HELPS. 


into the water. Idle praying is useless some- 
times ; we must be ready to help change things 
ourselves.” Rue looked very serious. 

“Even Christ, the obedient Son, asked that 
the cup might be removed,” said Auntie, after 
a pause. Rue seemed to be very much moved. 

“I did n’t know that I might ask him to 
change things,” she repeated, “to make bitter 
sweet, hard easy, darkness light; I thought 
that I must be brave and bear.” 

“ So you must, until he make the changes,” 
returned the older pilgrim over life’s rough 
road, with moistened eyes as Rue’s filled. “ Oh, 
how sweet that healed water must have tasted ! 
I have tasted healed water many and many a 
time; have you?” 

“ I guess that I have swallowed it bitter, and 
thought myself a saint and a martyr for doing 
it,” said Rue, with a short laugh. 

“ Do you know what happened to our travel- 
lers after that? They journeyed on to Elim, 
and found twelve wells of water all ready for 
them. You see that he does have the water 
ready when it is best. No murmuring now! 
No thanksgiving, either, that I ever heard of. 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 47 

Rue, do you know how little thanksgiving there 
is in the world ? ” 

“ I know how little there is in me,” confessed 
Rue. “I was n’t feeling a bit thankful when 
you came in.” 

“And then they went on and on until half 
of the second month was gone ; and the first 
thing that we hear is that the whole congrega- 
tion is murmuring again. They could n’t stop 
to pray, I suppose ; they had to spend the time 
in murmuring ; if they felt so much like mur- 
muring they could n’t have felt much like pray- 
ing. They were hungry this time, their store 
of food was gone or about gone, and they did n’t 
find anything ready for them as they had found 
the wells at Elim, and before food could grow 
they would have time to starve a dozen times 
over. They forgot or disregarded the healed 
waters at Marah, and cried out that they would 
rather have died in Egypt, for they were not 
near the home that had been promised, and they 
had had all their sufferings for nothing.” 

“I understand that,” said Rue, sorrowfully. 
“I was wishing last night that I had never 
begun to pray about teaching, for I have to 


48 


RUE'S HELPS. 


expect it and look for the answer, and feel dis- 
appointed so often. Grace says that she is satis- 
fied with her life, — doing house- work, and going 
to Mite Society and singing-school, and fixing 
over her things, and visiting ; all she thinks of 
now is going to Boston for the winter. She 
never wishes for books ; she does n’t know any- 
thing about them ; she heard some one speak of 
4 The Wandering Jew,’ and she asked me if it 
were in our Sunday-school library. I almost 
did wish that I could be satisfied with the 
things that she is satisfied with. All she wants 
now is a muff and a new black silk. She is 
always singing around, that is, when she is n’t 
cross ; and I don’t feel happy at all. I feel as 
if I were all stirred up to no purpose. She stays 
in Egypt and has a good time ; she does n’t know 
anything about being 4 called ’ to do things, and 
I ’m always on the march towards somewhere, 
and always coming to Marah nowadays. Oh, 
it would rest me so to come to Elim just for a 
little while. I wonder why she is n’t 4 called,’ 
too,” added Rue in perplexity. 

“When Peter said, 4 And, Lord, what shall 
this man do ? ’ do you know what the Lord said ?” 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


49 


“ He said, ‘ What is that to thee ? ’ ” answered 
Rue, smiling. “ I need to have that said to me 
very often. Yes, we must each live out our own 
life ; I don’t mean to ask questions about other 
people’s lives. I ’ll never wish n^self back in 
Egypt again, not if I come to Marah every 
day, — Marah, where the bitter water is.” 

“ Marah, where the healed water is,” cor- 
rected Auntie, gently. 

“Were the people punished for murmuring 
that time?” asked Rue. 

“ No : the Lord against whom they had spoken 
sent them flesh in the evening and bread in the 
morning, and so they had plenty from the great 
storehouse up above, — the storehouse that they 
could not see, and that they certainly did not 
believe in ; they had to learn that he could do 
a great many things that they could not think 
of.” 

“ I have to laugh at myself about that,” said 
Rue. “ I can’t understand how I can be so fool- 
ish as to think that if I do not see any way out 
that he cannot think of any, and I do act as if 
I thought so.” 

“Nothing is so true as the most wonderful, 


4 


50 


RUE'S HELPS. 


child; we are living in the same wonderful 
times.” 

44 You are,” cried Rue, admiringly. “ I always 
think that there is some magic about your get- 
ting things.” 

“ The same magic has held good for sixty 
years ; after I decided to take God’s will un- 
questioningly, instantly, obediently, and as re- 
joicingly as I could, oh ! the happy and beautiful 
things it brought to me.” 

44 4 Unquestioningly, instantly, obediently, and 
as rejoicingly as I can,' ” repeated Rue ; 44 so 
likve I. To-day, this very day ; this day will 
always stand out. Do you suppose the angels 
rejoice over a fresh starting-point, Auntie, just 
as they do over repentance ? ” 

44 You may be sure that they are glad over 
everything there is to be glad about, child.” 

44 The suggestion to make the decision came 
from the Spirit,” said Rue, in an awed tone. 44 1 
have been so bad to-day that I don’t deserve it. 
Well, I won’t dread it if I do have to be led to 
Marah.” 

44 To the healed waters,” said Auntie in her 
peculiarly happy voice. 44 And so these people 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 5p 

went on again as you and I are going on again, 
‘according to the commandment of the Lord.’ 
According to his commandment we come to 
Marah ; according to his commandment we 
come to Elim. What for, do you suppose ? ” 

“ I don’t know what I have come to Marah 
for.” 

“ Perhaps you will learn through the lesson 
they learned ; what was written aforetime was 
written for our learning. Now, following the 
fire and the cloud, they came to another place 
and pitched their tents, and, sure enough, again 
there was no water ; again the commonest bless- 
ing had failed, and again, poor, faithless, for- 
getting folks, they thought that God could not 
or would not give them water. Perhaps they 
thought that he had exhausted his supply, that 
he had come to the limit of his power. Don’t 
you pity people who do not know what God can 
do ? Mr. Ireton said this afternoon, ‘ Oh ! what 
should I do if I could not see God’s hand in 
everything ! ’ I wonder why they did n’t fall 
down on their knees to God instead of fretting 
at Moses and finding fault with him. When 
we find fault with our surroundings, either of 


52 


RUE'S HELPS. 


people or circumstances, we are finding fault 
with God for letting such things be. This was 
at Rephidim. ‘ The people thirsted there for 
water.’ ” 

“ It makes me thirsty to think of it,” said 
Rue. “ Poor things ! ” 

“ This time Moses smote the rock, and water 
came out of it. Who could have guessed that 
the Lord would have brought water out of a 
rock? We cannot even imagine what he can do. 
They tempted the Lord there, saying, ‘Is the 
Lord among us or not ? ’ All they did was to 
doubt his presence.” 

Rue’s heart trembled. It had been so hard to 
feel that he had been in her home to-day. 

“ In the same place they met with enemies 
who fought against them. And all this before 
the third month was over. Their hard things 
came early in their journey. God does try his 
young children. They had to be hungry and 
thirsty, to come to places where bitter water 
was, or no water was, and to places where they 
could find nothing to eat, that they might learn 
their lesson, — their lesson of dependence upon 
him who could bring water and bread with a 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL, 53 

word. Their lesson, learned from coming to 
Marah, to Elim, and to the rock in Horeb, is 
our lesson, your lesson in all your hard places, — 
the lesson of dependence. There is nothing so 
sweet in the world, child, as dependence upon 
one who loves us and who is wise and has 
power. That is why you are so full of desires ; 
the more hungry you are for life’s good things, 
even for what people call the temporal blessings, 
the more readily, the more earnestly, the more 
seekingly you run to him who is so rich that 
his supply can never fail, to him who can think 
of ways and means surpassing all our under- 
standing. That is why you are so hungry, 
because he has things to give. Every one of 
your hungry times is his call to you.” 

“ Oh, I am so glad ! ” exclaimed Rue, bring- 
ing her hands together. 

“They came to these hard places not of 
their own will or wilfulness, but in obedience ; 
doesn’t that help you? ” asked Auntie. 

“ Yes, I had almost thought of that. I think 
that I had thought it, but the words had not 
come. I do want to be obedient. I was afraid 
that I was wilful in thinking so much of teach- 


54 


RUE'S .HELPS. 


ing, and that I had neglected other things and 
was making myself unfit for helping at home, 
because I can’t help lying awake to think about 
it and plan about it. What happened next to 
these people that were like me?” 

“After these marchings and stoppings and 
this fighting, they came before the mount in the 
desert of Sinai, and camped while Moses went 
up into the mount to see what God wanted him 
to say to the people next. Perhaps the people 
trembled in view of what the next command 
might be. A fight with enemies it might be, or 
some other dreadful thing, — some new dread- 
ful thing ; for in these three months they had 
found the wilderness a place to be afraid of. 
But this next thing was not hunger nor thirst, 
but only that they must prepare themselves to 
hear the laws that God would have them obey. 
Now that they were ready to obey, and had 
learned whom to obey, they must learn what to 
do in order to obey. They had learned that 
they must depend upon him, or they would die 
for want of food ; they must depend upon him, 
or enemies would kill them ; and thus through 
manifold experiences they had been made ready 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 55 

to listen to the mind of the Lord. His power 
they had seen, his goodness they had felt, and 
because of both they must hear him and obey 
him ; they were afraid because of his power, 
but how could they help loving him because of 
his loving-kindness? Mustn’t they think of 
him every time they picked up the manna ?” 

“ I don’t,” said Rue, kneeling before the fire 
and placing chips among the coals. 

“ But before they were permitted to listen 
to the law, they must sanctify themselves and 
wash their clothes. Are you ready to listen, do 
you think ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I like to listen to all you 
say. They listened to the Ten Commandments. 
I want to listen to every one of his command- 
ments. If he command me not to teach, I’ll 
try to be glad to listen.” 

“ He will tell you, never fear, his will for 
you, just for you, in every hour of every day ; 
only be still and listen. Don’t let your own 
desires make such a hubbub in your heart that 
you cannot hear the voice of his Spirit. All 
your studying — I see you studying every 
evening — ” 


56 


RUE'S HELPS : 


“When I am not mending gloves or tak- 
ing stitches in something else,” interrupted 
Rue a little bitterly, for she was not sweet, — 
she was only growing sweet. 

“All }^our studying,” Auntie went on, “he 
will use for himself in one way or another.” 

“ I don’t want it to be wasted ; I don’t want to 
think only of my own culture. Auntie,” spring- 
ing up with energy, “ I ’m nothing but a moun- 
tain — a range of mountains — of selfishness.” 

“ In the dark ! ” exclaimed a deep, pleasant 
voice in the doorway ; “ is n’t it almost time for 
supper? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Rue. “ Auntie and I have 
been far back and far away and close at home.” 

“ You both like to be on the wing. Is n’t 
mother down stairs yet?” 

“No, sir,” answered Rue, setting the large 
kerosene lamp upon the sideboard, and coming 
back to the mantel for a match. 

“Don’t take a match. You ought to make 
lamplighters. That’s just the way; I work 
hard, and everything goes.” 

Rue found a piece of newspaper, twisted it, 
and lighted it among the coals. The light from 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


57 


the lamp fell upon the face that belonged to the 
deep, pleasant voice ; the face was as rugged 
and almost as stern as if it had been carved out 
of rock ; the shoulders were noticeably broad, 
and the hands large and brown. 

“ The sternest nature with the kindest heart 
that ever an undisciplined man possessed,” the 
minister had said to his sister about Captain 
Erskine ; “he can no more control his tears 
than he can his tongue.” 

Rue was afraid of her father, but she loved 
him intensely. Paul and Grace were afraid of 
him without loving him. His wife had neither 
love of him nor fear of him ; he was the one 
person in the world who hindered her from hav- 
ing her own way. 

“ It ’s prayer-meeting night, Rue ; did n’t you 
know it ? ” asked her father, coming to the 
fire. 

“ I had forgotten it, but I will hurry now.” 

“ If you ’ll let an old fellow stay all night, I ’ll 
pull off my boots.” 

Rue brought his slippers, then stood on tip- 
toe to kiss him. She was the only one in the 
house who ever kissed him. 


58 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Where ’s Grace ? ” he asked. 

“ Sewing in mother’s room.” 

“Life isn’t all hard work, is it?” he went 
on, as Rue threw down his boot-jack. 

“I learned to-day,” said Auntie, — Auntie 
learned something every day, — “that the Greek 
word signifying wickedness comes of another 
signifying labor , so that wickedness means hard 
work.” 

“ That ’s true,” he replied emphatically. 

Paul shouted “Milk!” in the kitchen, and 
Rue hastened out to strain it. 

Auntie rolled up her knitting that she might 
help Rue with the supper. 

“ I guess I ’ll go up and see mother,” said 
Captain Erskine, “ if somebody will light me a 
candle.” 

“ In a second,” said Auntie ; “ she would n’t 
have anything when I was in her room.” 

Rue rang the tea-bell while the clock was 
striking six. Grace came down with her fore- 
head puckered into wrinkles, because the dress 
that she was at work upon did not promise to 
be a perfect fit. 

“ I think that you might have come up and 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 59 

helped me, Rue. All the good mother did was 
to tell me how many silk dresses she had before 
she was married.” 

“Rue,” her father’s stern voice was behind 
Grace, “ get your mother something to eat im- 
mediately; she says that she hasn’t had a 
mouthful, but a cup of tea, since breakfast. I 
am ashamed of you that you can be so thought- 
less.” 

Rue colored angrily, and the quick angry 
tears filled her eyes. How could her mother 
have forgotten ? She had taken her toast, tea, 
and a boiled egg, as soon as her father had left 
the dinner-table, and had remained with her 
until she had eaten it all. She was too much 
grieved and too angry to justify herself ; besides, 
how could she contradict her mother? She 
could not remember that her father had ever 
before spoken to her in such a cold, harsh tone. 

“ Grace, pour the tea, and let Rue do some- 
thing for her mother.” Captain Erskine’s verbs 
were usually in the imperative mood. 

Rue went out into the kitchen to bring in the 
teapot, and stood a moment to quiet her nerves 
and wipe her eyes. 


60 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ I hate injustice,” she thought, indignantly. 
“ Mother exaggerates so fearfully that half the 
time what she says is half a lie. I don't want 
to think so ; I don’t want to be so angry ! ” 

On the little tea-tray she arranged smoked 
beef, a saucer of apple-sauce, a biscuit, and a 
piece of molasses cake. Her father opened the 
door for her, and held the light while she passed 
up the stairs. Opening the door of her mother’s 
chamber, she was greeted by a petulant voice : 
“ Don’t bring me anything to eat ; I can’t eat a 
mouthful, and I don’t like that candle that your 
father left here.” 

“ I ’ll set it on the carpet at the foot of your 
bed,” said Rue, soothingly, trying to believe 
that her mother had not intended to deceive, 
“and a cup of tea will make your head better.” 

“ There, now, you ’re spilling it,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Erskine, rising and dropping into an arm- 
chair before the air-tight. 

“Only a drop,” said Rue, drawing a small 
table towards the arm-chair. She thought that 
she ought to say, “ How is your head ? Does 
it feel any better ? ” but the ugly feeling in 
her heart would not permit. She did not like 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 61 

to touch her mother’s hand because she had told 
that lie. Rue’s father had never told her a lie ; 
she was afraid that she could never love him 
again if he should in any way deceive her. 
And yet the girl remembered more than once in 
which her own timidity had caused her to deny 
the truth. Once she had told her mother a lie 
to shield herself from a scolding. She despised 
herself for every lie that she had told, and she 
despised others as bitterly and intensely as she 
despised herself. As I said, she was an excel- 
lent hater ; she had not yet learned to hate the 
sin without hating the sinner. It seemed as if 
the lie were on her mother’s face and hair and 
hands, and she could not touch her without 
touching it. 

“ Oh, dear,” she groaned within herself, “ I 
don’t want to feel so wicked about it ! ” 

“You look tired,” said her mother, kindly. 
“I shall be about to-morrow, and you won’t 
have so much to do. I could n’t persuade Grace 
to go down.” 

“ Oh, I ’m not tired, — not so very, only of 
myself,” she answered quickly, the tears touch- 
ing her eyes again. 


62 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Who strained the milk ? Must you set a 
sponge to-night 9 ” 

“ I did. Yes, I must make bread.” 

“ This cake is n’t very good ; did you make 
it?” 

“Yes” 

“ And this tea is very weak. I never can eat 
when I ’m sick. There, take it away ! ” 

“Will you have an iron or a brick for your 
feet?” 

“No, I don’t want anything,” her mother 
said decidedly, setting down the empty cup, 
and beginning to nibble at the beef ; “ I have n’t 
any appetite, and I ’m growing weaker every 
day, and there ’s nobody to look after things 
but me. Auntie is n’t worth her salt.” 

“ She ’s eighty years old,” cried Rue, quickly. 

“There’s Ann Wright! She’s eighty-two, 
and she churns. My life has been full of 
trouble and hard work, and now your father 
has had to go and lose a thousand dollars in 
that mining speculation, just as we wanted it 
for our old age, and we may be destitute of the 
comforts of life yet.” 

“ The farm is n’t mortgaged,” said Rue, hope- 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


fully ; “ no one can take that away from us. 
And father is n’t old ; he is n’t fifty-four yet.” 

“ You need n’t throw it up at me if I am older 
than he is ; I look younger, everybody says so. 
We are growing poorer every day; I don’t 
know where it will end, and now your father 
says that he can’t get that money back off the 
farm, and he ’s determined to go to sea again. 
He ’ll be lost if he does ; sea-captains always 
are lost if they go back to the sea again. He 
says he ’ll go in the spring, and he always did 
have his own way, and Paul does n’t understand 
farming, and how are we to live, I ’d like to 
know. And Grace will go to Boston ; your 
father says let her go. I ’ll miss her dreadfully, 
for you are no kind of company, you are always 
poking over a book.” 

“I do not think that I am very good com- 
pany ; but there ’s Auntie ! ” 

“ And she ’s always talking religion. Mr. 
Ireton can’t talk about anything else but reli- 
gion. If everybody talked religion what would 
the world come to ? ” 

“ They live it as well as talk it, I think,” 
said Rue. 


64 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ I never could talk about religion. My re- 
ligion is n’t much of a comfort to me,” sighed 
Mrs. Erskine, picking a slice of lemon out of 
her apple-sauce. “ Those apples ought to be 
looked over, and I ought to have made the 
pickle for the pork to-day.” 

“ Oh, mother, do think of something to be 
thankful for! ” cried Rue, feeling as if she were 
so wicked to be depressed. 

“ I can’t. My life has been hard from the 
first, and I ’ll have to end as I began. Auntie 
could look serene if she had n’t a friend in the 
world, and she has n’t any friend but your 
father, and he ’s only a step-brother ; she ’s 
dependent upon him for every mouthful she 
eats. I suppose that she could get into the 
Old Ladies’ Home for a hundred dollars. Your 
father says that, if I very much hate to have her 
here, he ’ll send her there.” 

Rue felt as if her heart were bursting; she 
could not utter one word. Her father could not 
do such a cruel, cruel thing ! Oh, if everybody 
were only good and true and unselfish ! Was 
there not somebody somewhere who never did 
wrong ? 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


65 


“ Are you going to walk up to prayer-meet- 
ing ? People always take cold these mild days, 
and you ’ye been over the fire.” 

“ Father won’t like to go alone.” 

“ He won’t care. You look sick now. You ’d 
better take a dose of salts to-night.” 

“ I want to go ! I feel stifled staying in the 
house ; I feel as if I should choke if I could n’t 
get out in the air.” 

“ That ’s because you ’ye taken cold.” 

Rue laughed, and the laugh eased her heart ; 
she did not feel so much like choking after she 
found that she could laugh again. Fifteen 
years afterward Rue felt younger than she felt 
to-night. Auntie often said to herself, “ Rue 
will never be as old again as she is now.” 

“ Grace will stay with you, or Auntie ; I ’ll 
bring you my lavender-water, and Grace will 
bring up a hot brick.” 

“I don’t want anything. Have you had your 
supper ? I expect that your tea is cold.” 

“ I don’t mind,” answered Rue, brushing a 
crumb from the table and taking the tea-tray. 

“Nobody needn’t do anything for me; I’ll 
sit here till I ’m sleepy.” 


5 


66 


RUE'S HELPS . 


Tall, spare, with deep-set eyes, a sharp chin, 
and brown hair in which there was not one 
white thread, with a sharp voice that threw out 
her words as if each were too large for her 
mouth, and as if each were made of bits of 
polished hard wood coming out with difficulty 
and tumbling over each other, she was unlike 
her daughters and unlike Paul. Perhaps she 
was what she had made herself to be. Mr. 
Ireton said that she was the hardest talker that 
he had ever heard speak. This he said only to 
his sister. Some thought that he had no dis- 
cernment because he could not discover faults 
in his people ; he once said that they had none 
to speak of. 

If Rue were leaving her father with a head- 
ache she would have kissed him, but she never 
kissed her mother. When they were little the 
children supposed that she must have kissed 
them, as other mothers kissed their little chil- 
dren, but none of them remembered it ; even 
when they kissed her good-by at their going on 
a journey she never returned it. As she said, 
she was not one of the kissing kind. Oh, how 
often Rue had wished in her childhood and girl- 




WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 67 

hood that she had been one of the “kissing 
kind ” ! With her father on the ocean and her 
mother not motherly, she felt now that she 
had lived through an orphaned childhood. Her 
father was the wisest man in the world, of 
course, and the most loving father ; but he was 
as far away, almost, as her Father in heaven 
was. Her father wrote to her often, loving let- 
ters full of holy words, and her Father in 
heaven had never written to her; people said 
that the Bible was God’s letter, but it did not 
seem to her like her father’s letters, only that 
they both had holy words in them. She had 
not loved to read the Bible until she was seven- 
teen years old. She had read it through on the 
ocean. It was interesting to look over the pas- 
sages she had dated: English Channel, Havre, 
City Point, Virginia, Newcastle-on-Tyne, Sable 
Island, Gulf Stream. She had felt God very 
near on the ocean. How many nights she and 
her father had walked the deck talking! One 
thought that had impressed her she recalled now 
vividly : “ I am so glad that I did n’t wait till 
the end of my life to love Jesus.” As the 
thought flashed across her now she felt the 


68 


RUE'S HELPS. 


moonlight on the water, the motion of the ship, 
and the touch of her father’s sleeve on which 
her hand had rested. By the time that she 
reached the foot of the stairs and opened the 
sitting-room door she had forgotten that she had 
left her mother alone with a headache without 
kissing her. She was only thinking how glad 
she was that the bitter waters could be healed. 
If she only could have had Auntie long ago ! 
She had been with them but two years ; pre- 
vious to her coming Rue had seen her several 
times, but knew nothing of her excepting that, 
widowed and childless, she was living with an 
“own” brother in Maine. At his death her 
father had sent for her to come into his own 
home. “ I never liked her,” Rue’s mother had 
said. Rue had clung to her from the first. In 
her she had found something that she had been 
longing for without the consciousness of the 
longing ; it was a prayer answered before she 
had thought to pray for it. 

It was the hardest thing in the world for Rue 
to believe that God’s time was the best time, 
his way the best way. She believed with all 
her heart ; if only she could have his way in her 
own time, how satisfied she would be ! 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


69 


Opening the door into the light, Grace’s 
words jarred upon her mood. 

“ I shall have to trim that old merino with 
something; perhaps I have enough of the ma- 
terial.” 

“ That would look pretty,” Rue hastened to 
say, chiding herself for the momentary recoil. 

“ Oh, you don’t care how things look,” an- 
swered Grace, discontentedly ; “ you get your 
things done as fast as you can, and think no 
more about them. We had our merinos to- 
gether, and I have made mine over — let me 
see — this is the fifth time, and you’ve only 
made yours over once.” 

“ I have n’t time,” said Rue, taking her place 
at the table and breaking a biscuit. 

“And she’s a keeper at home, not a fly- 
about,” said their father. 

Grace colored; Rue looked sorry. Their 
father was pacing the floor, singing, 

“ ‘ Oh, may my heart in tune be found, 

Like David’s harp of solemn sound ! ’ * 

“How is your mother’s head?” inquired 
Auntie, as she piled the saucers together. 

“ Comfortable,” said Rue. 


70 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ It ’s only another worrying- time,” said Cap- 
tain Erskine, in his most disconsolate voice. 
“ She talked over her troubles last night till 
midnight ; that’s nothing new, she does it every 
night. I wanted her to say that she had some- 
thing to be thankful for; but she wouldn’t. 
I ’m thankful every night that I ’m safe in such 
a snug harbor. And, Auntie,” stopping in his 
walk to look at her, “ I do wish that you 
would n’t hold the cat and pet it ; she says it 
makes her nervous.” 

“ I always had a cat at home,” Auntie re- 
plied, with a slight unsteadiness ; “ I suppose I 
miss poor old Betty.” 

“Wait till you live with me, Auntie,” said 
Rue ; “ you shall have a lovely white cat, and 
she shall sit in your lap all day, and sleep on 
your bed at night.” 

Captain Erskine took up his walk again, sing- 
ing, 

“ ‘ Must I be carried to the skies 
On flowery beds of ease 1 ’ ” 

“ You never will be, father,” laughed Rue ; 
“I can answer that for you.” 

Auntie had set the teapot on the kitchen 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 71 

stove to keep the tea hot for Rue ; she brought 
it in, and poured out a cup of tea. There was 
a suspicious redness about Auntie’s eyelids ; 
she would miss petting the cat. 

. “ What shall I talk about in prayer-meeting 
to-night, Rue? ” asked her father, stopping be- 
hind her chair. 

Rue buttered her biscuit, meditating. 

“ Talk about prayer ; that ’s always new, and 
will be as long as people want something,” she 
said. 

“ I have talked about that in every port that 
I have sailed into around the world.” 

“Keep on,” said Auntie; “you will never 
come to the end. I never hear people talk 
about the preparation to receive God’s answer ; 
we are usually so full of our own answer .that 
we do not know when we receive his.” 

“ Do we have his answer and not know it ? ” 
asked Rue, in great astonishment. 

“I have, and have not known it till after- 
ward,” said Auntie. “ Do you like much sugar 
in your tea ? ” 

“ I never thought of that,” returned Captain 
Erskine, thoughtfully. “ I have always taught 
that the answer came in God’s time.” 


72 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“Now you can say that you have learned 
when God’s time is.” 

“ When is it ? ” asked Grace, interestedly. 

“ When we are prepared to receive his will 
instead of our will,” said Auntie, very slowly. 

“ Oh,” said Grace, disappointedly, “ that ’s 
no time at all ! ” 

“ No time at all with some people,” returned 
her father, sternly. Captain Erskine was apt 
to be harsh in his teaching ; it was a little 
strange, too, when he often declared that noth- 
ing but love could touch his own heart. “ Are 
you going with us to prayer-meeting ? ” 

Grace stood at the sideboard leaning her 
elbows upon it, gazing into the lamp. 

“ No, sir ; I have some sewing to do.” 

“ I wish that you would go,” said Rue, coax- 
ingly. 

“ You are St. Ruth, and that ’s enough for 
one small family,” returned Grace, lightly. 

After her day within doors, the starlight 
walk in the moist air was most refreshing to 
Rue. She was not tired of her home, but she 
did become very tired of the house. Paul 
walked on ahead, whistling a Sunday-school 
hymn, with his hands in his pockets. 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


73 


Rue walked beside her father, and talked. 
These two were great talkers when they were 
alone together. 

“ I don’t know what to do with mother,” her 
father began as soon as he had latched the 
gate. 

Her mother was one of the old topics. 
Paul’s carelessness, Grace’s worldliness, and 
Auntie’s general unfitness to “ dovetail ” with 
his wife were every one of them old topics. 
Captain Erskine was not aware that he was a 
fault-finder ; he would have been startled had 
any one told him that he never spoke of the 
virtues even of a friend until he had discussed 
his faults. 

“She isn’t well,” returned Rue, hopefully, 
“ and we all try her, — I know I do ; we can’t 
see things exactly as she does. Oh, I wish that 
I could see only the pleasant side of everybody ! 
People do drag on me so when they do wrong ! ” 

“ You always seem as happy as a lark. I 
wish that I could be as happy as you and Grace. 
You have n’t either of you a care in the world.” 

Rue smiled, and thought how far apart people 
could be who were close together. 


74 


RUE'S HELPS . 


“ Are you always sure that you are a Chris- 
tian ? ” were his next words. 

“ Why, yes, sir ! ” answered Rue, surprised ; 
“ I never once thought of doubting it.” 

“ Some of the best Christians that ever lived 
have doubted it,” he said rebukingly. “ What 
is that about causing anxious thought ? 

‘ Do I love the Lord or no “? 

Am I his or am I not 'i ’ ” 

Rue’s heart sank. Poor Rue ! her heart had 
a way of sinking. Ought she to doubt ? How 
could she doubt whether or not she loved Jesus 
Christ ? Must she think how the best Christians 
felt towards him ? She knew that she loved him ; 
she had loved him for years and years, ever 
since she was a little girl : she could not live if 
she did not love him ; her heart would break. 

“ I have spent hours of great anxiety about 
myself ; I have great doubts as to my accept- 
ance.” 

“ If I thought that I was n’t a Christian, I ’d 
decide now by beginning this very minute,” 
said Rue, earnestly. 

“ It is well to examine ourselves,” was the 
grave and rather stern reply. 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 75 

Perhaps she was presumptuous ; perhaps she 
was self-reliant ; perhaps she did not think 
enough about herself and her sins. She could 
not reply to his next remark about the North 
star : “ That star is an old friend of mine.” 
Must she begin to dissect herself ? She must be 
very far behind the best Christians that ever 
lived. Who were they ? 

“ Yes, sir,” she replied to something her father 
said, running over in her mind the names of 
Baxter, Whitefield, Harriet Newell, Wesley, 
Cowper, John Newton, Colonel Gardiner, Lady 
Huntingdon, Legh Richmond, the Dairyman’s 
Daughter, Payson, Wilberforce, Henry Martyn, 
Harlan Page, Judson and his three wives, and 
oh ! how could she be forgetting St. Paul and 
St. John ? 

u We love him because he first loved us.” 
Who said that? It sounded like John. And 
who said, “ Whom, having not seen, ye love,” 
and something about “ joy unspeakable,” loving 
with joy unspeakable ? 

All the way up the hill the words “We love 
him, — we love him,” filled her heart. Her 
father wondered at her silence, thinking that 


76 


RUE'S HELPS. 


she might have been impressed by his warning. 
Young Christians needed a great deal of warn- 
ing ; they were apt to run on too fast in their 
zeal and ignorance. Perhaps it would be well 
for him to talk to the young converts to-night 
and warn them of shoals and quicksands ; even 
Paul was afraid of becoming a cast-away. 
There was his own Paul. The father’s heart 
often groaned over his own Paul. If two peo- 
ple who loved each other ever thoroughly mis- 
understood each other, it was Captain Erskine 
and his son, his only son, Paul. Captain 
Erskine in his boyhood had been “ licked into 
shape,” and he seemed to believe and to act as 
if this were the only way to get Paul into shape. 

In seeking to shape his experiences after the 
pattern of religious biography, Captain Erskine 
gave himself many hard battles with himself. 
Rue was not aware that she was expected to do 
this ; she had not even decided that she must 
be Rue Erskine, nothing and no one beside ; 
she had been simply herself all her life, without 
thinking anything about it. And this self had 
loved Jesus ever since she had felt near to him 
in her little upper room, five hundred miles 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


77 


away from Geneva. The last thing that she 
had done in the empty house on the day of 
their removal was to go up stairs to her own 
hall-bedroom, and kneel upon the bare floor to 
thank God for all the happy times that she had 
had with him in that room ; and then she arose 
and went out, closing the door, assured that he 
was going with her into her untried home. 
Partly unknown, altogether untried, was life in 
the country on a farm to the city child, and 
almost unknown and untried was life with her 
father among them ; it was something of an ex- 
perience to them both, at this late day, to be- 
come acquainted with each other. He had said 
once to her that his real life at home was not 
like the life at home that he had dreamed about 
those years on the ocean. This thought was in 
his mind, as they walked up the hill. Captain 
Erskine took life very hard ; in many experi- 
ences he was younger than Rue ; like her, he 
had never thought that the bitter waters might 
be healed, and that he might help in the heal- 
ing. The power of endurance was written in 
every line of his face. 

Rue afterward remembered nothing of that 


78 


RUE'S HELPS . 


evening’s meeting but the pastor’s short ad- 
dress. The meeting was held at the house of 
the oldest inhabitant of the village. The old 
man was several years past ninety, deaf and 
palsied; his few utterances were understood 
with difficulty. He was seated in a cushioned 
arm-chair near the table, on which were placed 
the two tall candlesticks, the hymn-book and 
Bible. He could not hear one word, except as 
the speaker bent his head to his ear, raising his 
voice ; at such times a pleased smile broke over 
his wrinkled, childish old face. 

Near the close of the meeting the minister 
arose, and, resting one hand upon the back of 
the arm-chair, began to talk. There were three 
other aged persons present, many in middle age, 
a number of youth, and several children, among 
them Lou and Persis Ireton. Lou was sitting 
close to Rue, with her bare fingers clasping 
Rue’s gray gloves. They had taken a dark cor- 
ner near a what-not, covered with what Lou had 
whispered to Rue were the “ old peoples’ play- 
things.” Rue had scarcely listened to the 
prayers, singing, or addresses, until the minis- 
ter began to speak ; she was chiding herself for 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL . 


79 


having been so angry with her mother, for 
not having been more patient with her usual 
habit of exaggeration. She was sure that the 
Lord thought that she had the wickedest heart 
in the room. He was certainly among them as 
he had promised to be, and he knew that her 
heart was sobbing at his feet. Two of her 
44 boys ” were sitting near her, with their earnest 
eyes upon the speakers, — Will Adams and Ed 
Augus. 

The minister’s thought was suggested by the 
two white envelopes in her hand when she en- 
tered the room. Paul had stopped at the post- 
office, and handed the mail to her as he over- 
took her at the gate. 

“ As I was coming along to night,” he began, 
44 I overheard a voice behind me asking, 4 Are 
you going to the prayer-meeting ? ’ and the an- 
swer was, 4 Yes, after I get the mail ; I have 
been on pins and needles to get this mail for a 
week.’ There is no one in this room who has 
not at some time anxiously waited for the mail ; 
even the children have, I suspect. I heard a 
little girl saying yesterday , 4 Oh, I hope that my 
letter will come to-night ! ’ 


80 


RUE'S HELPS 


“The letter that we so anxiously look for- 
ward to is almost always a reply. We are 
expecting a word from an absent friend, a bene- 
factor, or from one who has business dealings 
with us ; we are expecting something that we 
have wished for or worked for. 

“ If the answer must come from over the sea, 
it may be day& and perhaps weeks before we 
can receive our reply ; if the distance be not so 
long, there may be other causes of delay. The 
friend to whom we have written may not be at 
home, or he may be too much engrossed in his 
own affairs, or he may not have the power to 
help us, or he may not have the willingness to 
help us. He may not have the wisdom to help 
us ; he may not understand us or our need ; he 
may not love us with the unselfish love that 
will take so much trouble for us ; he may not 
even read and weigh every word of our request. 
We may not express ourselves plainly enough 
for him to perfectly understand our meaning ; so 
how can we but anxiously wait for the mail, for 
how can we be sure of our answer? Perhaps 
your friend has laughed at your request, think- 
ing it silly, and so has thrown it into the waste- 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 81 

paper basket ; perhaps he never had a need like 
it, and so is not sympathetic ; perhaps he has to 
help some one else and so cannot help you, or 
even if he can and will help you, your letter 
may have miscarried and so have been sent to 
the Dead-Letter Office, or if your letter have 
gone safely and a reply have been written, per- 
haps that reply has been lost. Oh, how many 
reasons there are that we must anxiously wait 
for our mail, for how can we be sure of our 
answer ? 

“ Now, I will tell you how to wait for the mail 
with no anxiety, no harrowing suspense ; each 
day, be the letter delayed day after day, month 
after month, yea, even year after year, each hour 
may be an hour of joyful waiting. The thing 
for you to do to learn this joyful waiting is as 
easy and as simple as it is for you to breathe. 
The youngest child may do it perfectly; the 
mute, who cannot speak, but only think his 
desires, may do it perfectly; the one who can 
neither read nor write can do it perfectly; 
every one in all this longing world may do it 
perfectly. There is but one person who cannot 
do it perfectly, and presently I will tell you 
6 


82 


RUE'S HELPS. 


who that is. This perfect asking requires 
three essentials. First, you must be in earnest 
in the thing you wish for ; it must not be a 
wavering desire, here to-day and gone to-mor- 
row ; it must abide in your heart, ardently longed 
for. Are you not all capable of that first essen- 
tial? Be it a large desire or a small desire, it 
matters not. A little girl I know wants five dol- 
lars to make Christmas presents ; a young man 
I know wants an education ; a young lady I 
know wants to teach school; another young 
man I know wants to go to Burmah as a mis- 
sionary ; a boy I know is tired of living on a 
farm and wants to go away and learn a trade ; 
an old man I know is very anxious to get fifty 
dollars to pay his taxes ; another I know wants 
a thousand to pay off his mortgage ; a mission- 
ary out West wants an overcoat, and his little 
boy wants very much a pair of boots with red 
tops; a sister I know wants her brother to 
become a Christian ; a mother I know, who has 
not taken a step for five years, wants to recover 
her strength, that she may look to the ways of 
her household; a young man I know wants a 
certain lady for his wife ; and, oh, how you want 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 83 

and how I want to understand the will of God ! 
How we all want the Holy Spirit to dwell, un- 
grieved, in our hearts ; how we all want our sins 
to be forgiven! All these people that I have 
spoken of, and I know them all, have the first 
essential, — ardent, unwavering desire ! I hope 
they all have the second essential. They will 
never have their heart’s desire without it. 
Secondly, you must know of God and about 
God. You must know that he is : a friend at 
a distance may be dead while you are writing 
the letter, but God cannot die; he always is; 
he always will be. Your letter to him cannot 
be too late for his mail. And not only must 
you believe that he is , but you must believe 
that he will abundantly bless your asking. You 
must believe in his love, so you are sure that he 
wants to give you your heart’s desire just be- 
cause he loves you; you must believe in his 
wisdom; you must rest, lie still, be quiet, not 
be in a hurry, because of his mighty strength. 
With all that love, all that power, all that wis- 
dom, he has a perfect knowledge of you; he 
knows every thought, whether you are sleeping 
or waking ; he knows what you are wishing for, 


84 


RUE'S HELPS. 


and why you are wishing for it, and what you 
intend to do with it. He cares for the little 
girl who wishes for five dollars as much as he 
cares for the young man who wishes to go to 
Burmah to teach the heathen. He likes to have 
the little girl wish to make Christmas presents, 
and the young girl wish to teach, and the 
mother long to be about the house, just as 
well as he likes to have that young man wish 
to go to Burmah. He knows if the granting of 
your heart’s desire will make you selfish, or if 
it will make you grateful towards him. If it 
will make your life a life of thanksgiving, be 
sure he will give it to you, for he who offereth 
praise glorifieth him. There is no selfishness in 
a heart that is filled with thankfulness. 

“ He knows, and you do not know, if the 
granting will draw you away from him. He 
will give or he will withhold, according as 
the giving or withholding will send you from 
him or draw you nearer to him. Not only ac- 
cording to your faith will he give, but according 
to his love and wisdom, according to his great 
riches. And that is better than you can ask or 
think. 


WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 


85 


“ Now, you may all have the first essential, un- 
wavering desire, and you may all have the sec- 
ond, the knowledge of God and the trust in 
him. Thirdly, you must not only keep on want- 
ing it, and continuing instant in prayer, but you 
must want it and ask N it in a certain way ; no 
other wanting, no other asking, will suffice. If 
this last be forgotten or neglected, all your 
wishing, all your praying even, will be of no 
avail ; wishing, working, praying, avail nothing 
without this most essential of all essentials. 
The little child may ask in this one perfect way 
as well as this aged Christian before us. This 
* is the one way of asking: For Jesus' sake. Only 
in Jesus’ name will God hear you. If you for- 
get or neglect his name in your prayers, it is not 
true praying at all. If you have not his spirit 
in your prayers, it is not true praying at all. 
You must not ask for anything that will keep 
you from working for Jesus, loving Jesus, think- 
ing about Jesus, obeying Jesus ; that is, praying 
in his spirit and in his name and for his sake. 
And now I will tell you the only one person 
who cannot ask perfectly. It is the man or 
woman or child who does not love and obey 
Jesus Christ.” 


86 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Rue drew a long sigh of pleasure ; as water 
in a thirsty land, so were these words to her. 

She had had her word after her hard day. 

After the benediction she attempted to cross 
the room that she might thank Mr. Ireton for 
fitting her sore need ; but old Mr. Lancaster, 
who could neither read nor write, was holding 
both his hands. 

“ Lou, tell your father,” she whispered to 
the child, “that I shall never, never forget 
what he said to-night.” 


II. 


ACCEPTED, AFTER ALL. 

The rain came, as the clouds had betokened. 
Rue was glad of a rainy day for several reasons : 
the one reason above all was, that there would 
not be the usual interruption that/ sunny days 
always brought, — visitors for Grace ; when 
Grace was engaged in entertaining her friends, 
Rue was compelled to do Grace’s work as well 
as her own. This rainy day she had decided to 
give her spare hours to a corner of the garret, 
wrapped in a shawl, and to the first pages of 
“Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful.” She had 
peeped into it and hugged it to her heart in an 
ecstasy of appreciation, and with the rain on 
window and roof, her shawl close around her, 
and all the noisy signs of life below her, how 
she would revel in it ! There was no particular 
mending to be done, and it was neither baking- 
day, washing-day, ironing-day, nor churning-day ; 
it was only a rainy day, with a few household 


88 


RUE'S HELPS. 


tasks and Burke and the garret ; but first, before 
she opened the book, she would kneel, with 
her forehead on the window-sill, and tell God all 
over again about her desire to teach, why she 
wanted it, and what she hoped to do with it, and 
she would say, as she had learned to say with a 
new and deeper meaning, “ For Jesus’ sake.” 

She would say — why, she was saying it al- 
ready as she brushed the crumbs from the table- 
cloth, — “Our Father, I come to thee because 
Jesus says I may.” Grace, meanwhile, was stand- 
ing at the western window watching the rain, 
scowling (Grace did not frown, she scowled), and 
scolding because the rain was spoiling her plan of 
shopping. How could she go next week if she 
could not get to town to-day to get her things ! 

“ I wanted to plough,” said Paul, pulling off 
his rubber boots on the hearth. “ I want to get 
all the fall ploughing done, so that father can’t 
have that to find fault with. I believe that 
father hates me.” 

“ Now, Paul ! ” cried Rue, in a distressed voice. 

“Now, Paul! ” mimicked Paul, in a distressed 
voice . 

“ You can take me to town then,” proposed 
Grace, eagerly; “you know I must go.” 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 89 

“ I won’t ask father for the horses ; I ’d see 
them drop dead,” said Paul, energetically. 

“ I fail to see the connection,” said Rue, laugh- 
ing. “ I ’ll ask him if you and Grace may go to 
town,” she added suddenly. Paul and Grace 
never would ask a favor of their father; they 
always approached him through their mother or 
Rue. Rue placed the crumb-tray on the side- 
board, wondering why it was so very, very hard 
for her to ask a favor of her father, and resolv- 
ing to train herself to such graciousness that 
everybody would love to come to her for the 
granting of a heart’s desire. Suppose it were 
hard instead of easy to go to God for anything 
and everything that she wanted ! Her heart 
would break ; she could not live on the earth. 

“I wish I was a king,” said Paul, seating him- 
self on the chintz-covered footstool and holding 
his gray woollen foot to the fire, “and then I ’d 
ask favors of nobody.” 

“ I wish that I were a queen,” said Rue, “ and 
then I ’d grant favors with such sweet gracious- 
ness that all my kingdom would be knocking at 
the palace gates.” 

Auntie came through the kitchen doorway 


90 


RUE’S HELPS. 


with a small blue wooden tub filled with steam- 
ing water in her hands. As she set it on the table 
and dropped the spoons and forks into it, she said: 
“ Rue, you remind me of the signification of our 
beautiful word lady ; do you know what it is ? ” 

“ ‘ Lady,’ ” repeated Rue, — “a lady is a per- 
fectly refined and spiritualized womanly woman.” 

“ I wish that you would hurry if you ’re going 
to ask father,” interrupted Grace ; “ it ’s past 
eight already.” 

Rue opened the door of the chimney closet 
and found her rubbers. 

“ The word lady” said Auntie, twirling a cup 
around in the hot water, “ is composed of two 
Saxon words, one signifying a loaf of bread and 
the other to give , or serve ; a lady, therefore, 
girls, is a bread-giver ! ” 

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Rue, enthusi- 
astically ; “ and bread stands for all the needs of 
life.” 

“ Be a lady and coax father,” said Paul, “ and 
give us the bread of going to town.” 

“ I ’ve got to be off before Christmas, or I 
shan’t have a good time at all,” muttered Grace. 
“ I shall lose all my Christmas presents, beside.” 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 


91 


“ Oh, you ’ll go ! I ’ll push you off,” cried Rue 
from the kitchen, wrapping a red shawl about 
her head and shoulders. Her foot faltered as 
she opened the porch door and stepped out upon 
the door-stone; her father might say “no” in 
his shortest manner, and then what could she 
plead ? He might have other use for the horses, 
or something about the carriage or top-wagon 
might be out of repair, or he might need Paul 
to thresh rye or turn the corn-sheller, or he 
might say that it was too stormy for Grace to 
expose herself. Grace would be so disappointed. 
Her father could not understand what difference 
in her journey a day sooner or later could pos- 
sibly make, but Grace knew, and Rue was ever 
sympathetic. 

“ Please, our Father, let Grace go to town 
this morning,” she said in her heart. 

Was that foolish? There was not a thought 
in her heart that Rue did not pray about. Now 
she could go on more bravely, for the result of 
her errand would not be her father’s will, but 
God’s will through her father’s lips. 

Sometimes Rue thought that she would rather 
that God would speak to her himself. Even if it 


92 


RUE’S HELPS. 


were God’s words that were uttered by the hu- 
man voice, the human voice gave them a harsh- 
ness and unlovingness that could not be in God’s 
voice, and she wanted God’s voice as well as his 
words. 

For an instant, as she stood on the end of the 
plank, holding her shawl close and looking across 
the yard, listening for a sound of her father’s 
voice or an evidence of his work, she wished 
that it were Mr. Ireton of whom she must ask 
the favor. Since he had talked about waiting 
for the mail she was ready to receive God’s will 
through his voice ; she wished that, when God 
refused her anything he might be the one chosen 
to tell her. 

As she stood looking and listening, she won- 
dered, for the first time in her life, how the voice 
of Jesus Christ had sounded. 

Paul had said that he had left his father in 
the cow stable ; she did not care to cross the cow- 
yard ; she stood still, and called, “ Father ! ” 

“ Here I am.” The voice was near at hand 
and encouraging ; perhaps he recognized a little 
timidity in the call. 

The door of the workshop stood open. She 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 


93 


went to the doorway, and paused on the thresh- 
old ; her shawl slipped backward, and the rain 
fell on her hair ; her cheeks were flushed, her lips 
tremulous, her eyes eager. 

“ Well, daughter.” Her father straightened 
himself, and looked down admiringly on his han- 
dicraft. He was making a ladder. “ Have you 
come to help me ? ” 

“ I wish I could,” she replied, advancing, step- 
ping over chips and shavings. “ I think that I 
don’t know how to make a ladder ; when I climb, 
it must be on a ladder of some one else’s making.” 

“Well, I can’t be idle. Paul thinks a rainy 
day is a day to loaf in. I told him that he 
shouldn’t go either to the store or the black- 
smith’s shop to-day ; he shall stay home and 
work, or learn something.” 

“ Will it stop raining, do you think, to-day ? ” 
ventured Rue, faint-heartedly. 

“ No; this is an easterly storm. You have n’t 
forgotten how to box the compass, have you? ” 

“ No,” said Rue, thinking that Grace would 
like to box her ears for being gone so long ; “ I 
was doing it for Will Adams last week.” 

“ Paul don’t take to such things. I wish that 


94 


RUE'S HELPS. 


I knew what he does take to beside shirking 
work.” 

To hear her father blame Paul hurt Rue more 
than any one other thing in the whole world ; 
rather more than it hurt her to hear Paul blame 
his father, for her father was old and experi- 
enced and had been a boy himself, and Paul had 
never been anybody’s father. Rue knew noth- 
ing of the world ; but in her own little home, with 
so few in it, how she did rub against human na- 
ture ! Her human nature had not learned to 
take easily other human natures. 

“ I have been talking to him this morning,” 
her father continued, leaning back against the 
carpenter’s bench. “ I asked him if he thinks 
that he ’s converted, but I could n’t get a word 
out of him, he was as sullen as a dog. I never 
had a father to talk to me. If I should die to- 
night I could n’t reproach myself for not doing 
my duty by that boy ; I have left nothing un- 
said. He hates the ocean ; he ’s fit for nothing 
on a farm. I told him this morning that he 
may go and learn any trade he likes, but I 
shan’t give him a cent ; he ’s got to fight his 
own way, as his father did before him. I began 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 


95 


at the lowest round, and climbed up till I got 
the command of a big ship, with nobody to help 
me, and he may do the same.” 

“ Apprentices don’t earn wages, do they ? ” 
asked Rue. 

“ Their board and a trifle a week. Let him 
go ; he won’t stay on the farm. I wash my 
hands of him. Can’t I make a ladder ? I ’d 
have made a good carpenter myself.” 

“It looks strong,” said Rue, and then, catch- 
ing at the change in his tone, she said, speaking 
very fast, “ Will you let Grace go to town this 
morning? She wants to do some shopping, or 
she can’t get away before Christmas.” 

“ I have n’t any money to waste in shopping. 
Yes, she can go. Paul can take her; I want to 
finish my ladder. Take both horses, go in the 
top- wagon, and tell Paul to get — No, I ’ll tell 
him myself.” 

Without a word Rue ran back over the slip- 
pery plank. Captain Erskine took up his tools, 
singing, 

“ ‘ I ’d vie with Gabriel while he sings 
In notes almost divine.’ ” 

He worked, singing at intervals, thinking of 
his wife and praying for Paul. 


96 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Rue opened the porch door, calling out joy- 
ously, “ Grace, you may go.” 

It was something new to live for, that she 
might be a bread-giver all her life ; how it 
chimed in with her thoughts and hope of teaching ! 
She must tell Mrs. Willever her new thought. 

“ That ’s grand,” cried Grace ; “ lend me your 
waterproof.” 

“ Now ask him for money,” said Paul. 

“ Have n’t you any money, Grace ? ” asked 
Rue, anxiously, stooping to remove her rubbers. 

“ Not half enough ; I want so many things.” 

“ I have two dollars,” said Rue, thinking of 
her worn brown kid gloves. 

“You might lend it to me, will you? You 
don’t need things, staying at home. And you 
don’t care how you look.” 

Rue thought of her many-times-mended gloves, 
her faded veil, and old shoes. 

“ Well,” she said reluctantly; “ will you send 
it to me as soon as you can ? ” 

“ Of course I will, as soon as I can spare it. 
Mother has given me every cent that she has 
in the world. Now do hurry, Paul, before the 
storm gets worse ! ” 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 


97 


“ You girls are always wanting something,” 
grumbled Paul, good-humoredly. “ Write a 
letter for me, Rue, quick ! Write to Green and 
Harrow ; ask them if they want an apprentice 
in the spring. Father is glad to get rid of me.” 

“ You have n’t had any answer from the three 
places I wrote to a month ago. It is n’t pleas- 
ant to wait for no answer, is it?” 

“ I guess that Mr. Ireton is waiting for his 
mail pretty hard,” said Paul ; “ he ’s been there, 
or he could n’t have talked into a fellow’s heart 
as he did.” 

Rue took the large Physical Geography from 
the stand, and went to the broad window-sill 
with pen and ink ; taking an envelope from the 
book, and using the book as a writing-desk, she 
wrote the name and address, thinking, as she 
made the handsome capital G, that she was writ- 
ing not only to Green and Harrow, but through 
them to God ; no, was it not first to God and 
then to them? They might not care, but he 
did. “ And now you will wait for your mail,” 
she said, feeling the touch of Paul’s hand upon 
her shoulder; “have you many answers to 
wait for, Paul?” 


7 


98 


RUE'S HELPS. 


He flushed and dropped his eyes, although 
she was not looking up at him. 

“ I want to be good, that ’s all,” he said in a 
lower tone. “ I don’t know about, things, and 
I can’t talk.” 

“ Can’t you say that to father? ” she asked. 

“No, I can’t; he thinks I can talk like a 
deacon. I wonder if words never stuck in his 
throat ; I guess that he was born talking in a 
prayer-meeting.” 

Mrs. Erskine pushed open the door leading 
from the hall, and entered with a feeble step, 
wrapped in a shawl. “ How cold you are down 
here ! And, Ruth, what are you writing for so 
early in the morning? Dinner will be late. 
Are the potatoes and turnips peeled, and what 
shall we have for dessert ? Grace will take her 
death of cold going out in this rain, and she ’s 
got to go.” 

The east-wind blew over Rue at her moth- 
er’s entrance, and clouds settled down heavily. 
“ I wonder if I depress any one so,” she thought, 
rising; “I wouldn’t like to make a rainy day 
in anybody’s heart.” Would all to-day be like 
this? Would her mother fret and worry and 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 


99 


complain? Would her father come in to dinner 
with a stern and sorrowful face? Would not 
to-day bring her any good thing? Was life in 
her home to-day Marah, where bitter water 
was ? Oh that God would tell her what to do 
to make the bitter water sweet ! 

“ Give me a sweet heart,” she prayed many 
times that day. About noon, as she and her 
father stood together in the kitchen, each wip- 
ing their hands on the long roller towel, he 
stooped and kissed her. 

Her father’s kisses were one of her helps in 
these hard days. 

“ I wish that I could work slow,” remarked 
her father, rising from the dinner-table. “ I 
am always in such a hurry, and I don’t know for 
what. What I do to-day will not make any dif- 
ference for months ; but I can’t help it, I have 
to hurry.” 

“ 4 He that belie veth shall not make haste,’ ” 
quoted Auntie. 

The quick light that flashed into Rue’s eyes 
was Auntie’s answer. Rue’s impatient spirit 
was one of her inheritances. 

“ Rue,” exclaimed her mother, “ I want you 
to make me a cap this afternoon.” 


100 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Why, mother,” sighed Rue, resigning Burke 
and the garret in her sigh, “ you have two laid 
away now.” 

“ Suppose I have. I want a different kind of 
a one. I ’ll show you how.” 

“ Well, I ’ll be ready by half past two.” 

“ Are you keeping Grace and Paul’s dinner 
hot?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

Was it because she was so unbelieving that 
she wanted to make haste? To make haste 
toward the time when her mother would look 
upon the bright side of things ; toward the 
time when Paul and her father would under- 
stand each other, and be patient with each 
other as well as love each other ; toward the 
time when Grace would care for something 
above and beyond having her own good time ; 
toward the time when she might have all the 
books she was hungry for, and time enough to 
study them ; toward the time when she might 
gather boys and girls around her to teach them 
about the world that God had made, and to 
show them that everything was one of his 
thoughts, and that they were to hear him and 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 101 

see him in all ; toward the time when some one 
should say to her, “ You told me about Jesus 
and I went to him.” The days dragged till all 
these things should be ; if there were only some 
place that she might go to get rested while she 
was waiting ! 

She was sweeping the kitchen, and as this last 
wish passed through her mind, she bent forward, 
leaning heavily on her broom. 

“ Don’t sweep if it makes you tired, child,” 
said her father, passing her on his way out to 
the workshop. 

It did make her tired to sweep ; every little 
detail of household work wearied her, and had 
wearied her for weeks past. During the fall 
she had taken a heavy cold ; it had left her with 
a slight, hard cough, and a constant feeling of 
physical and mental weariness. 

“ Rue is running down,” her mother had said 
that day to Auntie. “ I don’t want her to be 
sick, poor child ! How would we ever do with- 
out her ? What do you think is the matter 
with her ? ” 

“ Nervous exhaustion,” said Auntie, readily ; 
“ she is taking life too hard.” 


102 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ If she had anything to be troubled about ! 
But she has n’t, not a thing ! Her father would 
give her his eyes, and so would the rest of us. 
She must go and lie down ; she need n’t make 
my cap this afternoon, although I do need it 
sadly. I was weakly when I was young, and 
am yet.” 

Grace and Paul came stamping in, wet and in 
high spirits, and ready for dinner. Grace had 
several stories concerning her own economy to 
relate, and several packages to display ; she had 
bought a pale pink silk tie for Rue, because it 
was so hateful for her to have to stay home and 
work while she was away having fun. Rue 
colored over the tie ; she liked to be remem- 
bered. After the second dinner was cleared 
away, the dining-room dusted, and the fire on 
the hearth kindled into a blaze, Rue dropped 
into the broad window-seat to lean back and 
look out up the muddy road to the village to 
rest and think. It was chilly up garret, she 
would have a good hour with Burke in the 
window-seat ; but first she must think awhile, 
there were so many things to think about, and 
she had been too busy to think all the morning. 


ACCEPTED, AFTER ALL. 


103 


Oh the piles and piles of letters that she had 
written to God ! They had been piling up for 
years and years, ever since the time that she had 
lost the tin pail off the end of the rope in the 
cistern, and it had gone away out of sight, and 
she had asked God to bring it around again and 
help her to put it on the rope. It was rainy 
that day, and she was such a little, anxious 
thing ! That answer came in a few moments, 
and now there must be piles and piles of other 
good answers, now, this very rainy hour, on 
their way to her. And the people that were 
helping to bring the answers, and the things 
that were helping to bring the answers, up and 
down and everywhere all things were working 
together for her, and just because God loved 
her, and he loved her not because she was good, 
but because he wanted to. 

The door from the porch into the kitchen 
opened stealthily, noiseless footsteps crossed the 
bare floor, and Paul’s yellow head appeared at 
the dining-room door. 

“ I say, is any one here, — father or any- 
body?” 

“No, they are all up stairs.” 


104 


RUE'S HELPS . 


“ Will Adams is here, and wants to see you ; 
he’s run away, and don’t want nobody to 
know it ! ” 

“ Run away ! ” echoed Rue. 

“ Yes, I have,” replied a sturdy voice behind 
Paul ; and tall,* lank, light-haired Will Adams 
pushed through the doorway past Paul, and 
came and stood before Rue. 

“ I must go and cut wood,” said Paul, think- 
ing that Will might like to talk to Rue alone. 

“ Sit down, Willie,” said Rue, after clasping 
both hands over his cold dirty fingers. 

“ No, I can’t stop. People never stop when 
they have run away.” 

“You have n’t run far ; how long since you 
started ? ” 

“ Oh, just before breakfast.” 

“ What are you running away for ? ” 

“ Because my father and step-mother are ugly 
to me. She got me a licking last night and 
half a one this morning. See here,” taking a 
package of letters tied with soiled white cord 
from his breast-pocket, “ here are all the letters 
that you have ever written to me. I threw 
them out the window, and went around and 
picked them up.” 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 105 

“Don’t you think that your brothers need 
you at home and your little sister? You 
are the oldest, remember, the big brother to 
them all.” 

Will’s pale, tanned face crimsoned. 

“ I think that Jesus does n’t like to have you 
act so. Think how good and obedient he was 
when he was a little boy. He was subject to his 
parents ; that means that he yielded to them, 
obeyed them.” 

“ He did n’t have a step-mother,” said Will 
quickly, with a flash of triumph in his eyes, 
thinking that he “ had ” her there. 

“ No ; he had the dearest, sweetest, most lov- 
ing mother that a boy ever had. This same 
Jesus, who was once a boy on earth and is now 
the Lord in heaven, knows that your step- 
mother is not always patient with you ; he 
hears every word that she speaks to you and 
every word that you speak to her ; he lets her 
be unkind to you, that is, he does n’t prevent it, 
and he could easily enough if he wanted to.” 

“ Then why don’t he ? ” asked Will, almost 
angrily. 

“ Perhaps because he wants you to do it. 


106 


RUE’S HELPS. 


He likes to have us do good and hard things. 
I think that he never does anything for us that 
he has given us the power to do for ourselves. 
I am almost sure that he has given you the 
power to prevent her impatience with you.” 

“ I ’m only a boy ; how can I ? ” he asked 
earnestly. “ I ’d rather do that than run away.” 

He stood straight and still before her, his eyes 
on her face, his wet cap in one hand, his other 
hand on the back of a chair. 

“ You are weak, and not wise ; he gives power 
to weakness ; he will give you the power that 
lies in obedience, in respectful words, in never 
answering back, in little kind attentions, such 
as you would give to your own mother, in call- 
ing her ‘mother,’ as your father wishes you 
to do.” 

“ I call her ‘ Lucy,’ and so do the others. 
I told Harry that I ’d pull his tongue out if 
he called her ‘ mother.’ ” 

“ You are very horrid and provoking. You 
used to make me want to cry so many times ; 
when I was tired in school, you were my greatest 
trial ; to keep you busy was the hardest thing 
I had to do.” 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 107 

“You were never ugly to me,” said Will, 
dropping his eyes. 

“How could I be ugly to you when I was 
praying for you?” 

“ I guess that she don’t pray for me,” he an- 
swered with a little laugh. 

“You can be very lovable when you try to 
be ; just use this power that God has given you, 
and you will never want to run away.” 

“ I don’t believe I want to use it.” 

“ I ’m afraid you don’t. Do be good and 
obedient, Willie, and if she has half a mother’s 
heart, she will love you.” 

“ I don’t want her to love me ; I want her to 
treat me decent.” 

“ Where have you been to-day ? ” 

“ Oh, in the woods and around. I came to 
see Paul, and to say good-by to you ; I ’m 
going to California to keep sheep.” 

“ How old are }~ou ? ” 

“ Fourteen.” 

“Will you go home and be good? ” 

“ No, I won’t go home and be good.” 

“ Have you had any dinner ? ” 

“ I ’m not hungry, thank you.” 


108 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Did you have any breakfast? ” 

“ No, but I am not hungry.” 

“ I ’ll get you a biscuit, and some cold meat, 
and a piece of pie ; I never saw the boy who 
could refuse a piece of pie.” 

“ You see me,” he said, laughing. 

“ Eat to please me. I don’t like to think of 
you being hungry till you get to California, 
swimming seas, fording rivers, and running 
along on the telegraph wires, with nothing to 
eat.” 

“ You need n’t laugh ; I am running away,” 
he said, dropping into the window-seat beside 
her. She arose and went into the buttery, 
bringing him bread, meat, a piece of pie, and 
a glass of milk on a tea-tray ; she placed the 
tray beside him on the window-seat, and drew 
a chair near him for herself. He began to eat, 
looking very much ashamed. 

“ I went out to milk before breakfast, and she 
told father, when I brought in the milk, that I 
did n’t milk the cows dry ; and father said that 
if I worked for him, I must do better than 
that.” 


“ Perhaps she told the truth.” 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 


109 


“ I should n’t wonder if she did,” he answered, 
laughing. 

“ Willie, do you remember the night that you 
stayed, after school, and we had such a long 
happy talk, and you said that you would try 
to mind Jesus Christ, no matter how hard it 
was?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did you pray last night? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did you pray this morning ? ” 

“ No ; I was late, and father called me in a 
hurry.” ^ 

“ Do you care to do what Jesus wants you to 
do?” 

“ A little, not very much,” he said sincerely. 

“ Do you know what he wants you to do ? ” 

He looked out the window up the muddy 
road, through the mist, towards the village on 
the hill ; he tasted the pie, and remarked that it 
was good. Rue waited patiently. 

“ No,” after a pause, “ I don’t know.” 

“ Do you want to find out? ” 

“Not very much ; I ’d rather run away than 
find out.” 


110 


RUE'S HELPS. 


A heavy step on the stairs announced Cap- 
tain Erskine. 

44 1 don’t want to see him” cried Will, hastily ; 
“ here, I ’ll take the pie and run.” 

“ I shall be praying for you to go home to- 
night,” said Rue, taking the tray and moving 
towards the sideboard. 

“ I don’t care ; it won’t do any good.” 

44 1 shall expect to see you to-morrow in Sun- 
day school.” 

44 You won’t. Mr. Taylor never tells us about 
anything ; we all want you.” 

44 So do I want you,” was in Rue’s heart. 

44 Good-by,” he cried hastily, running through 
the kitchen. 

Captain Erskine entered and went to the fire- 
place. He stood a moment with his back towards 
the fire ; then, as if he had suddenly thought of 
them, drew a pair of wet leather gloves from 
his pocket and laid them on the mantel ; re- 
suming his position, he stood with his arms 
behind him ; he looked straight ahead, his eye- 
lids twitching nervously. Rue knew that he 
had been having a worrying talk with her 
mother about ways and means. 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. \\\ 

Afterwards she learned that during this talk 
he had decided to go to sea again. She was 
glad that she had not had it to bear that day. 

She went back to the window-seat, and, open- 
ing her work-basket, found a half-finished linen 
collar that she was making for Paul ; she took 
slow, absent-minded stitches, her heart full of 
Will. Was this the end that her boy was com- 
ing to? He was running ,away from home, and 
she would lose him ; she loved all her boys, but 
none of them as she loved motherless, wild 
Will. 

He did not care whether she prayed for him 
or not, he was running away from her ; but he 
could not run away from Jesus, he was his boy 
ten thousand times more than he was hers. 

“The fingers are all out of my gloves; can 
you find time to mend them this afternoon? 
Your mother is lying down, and Grace is up 
there making white and pink and yellow things.” 

“ Oh, father, you never will know colors.” 

“I know pink,” he said seriously, “because it 
is blue.” 

“ I thought that blue was the color, and pink 
was the name of it.” 


112 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“Did you think that your eyes were pink 
like a rabbit’s?” she queried, laughing. “You 
are a very funny father.” 

“ You are always laughing at your old father,” 
he said fondly. 

“ I have a piece of chamois ; I laid it away to 
mend your gloves.” 

~“ I think that I ’ll go out and measure oats. 
I want to take an account of stock. I think 
that the farm has supported us this year.” 

The damp sewing was not easy or pleasant; 
a part of her winter’s sewing consisted in mend- 
ing gloves, bags, and horse-blankets; once she 
had re-lined a horse-collar. Grace wondered 
how she could like to do such nasty work. Mrs. 
Erskine considered it an axiom in housekeeping 
that nothing could be too worn to be mended. 
Rue grievously remembered two days spent in 
darning a blanket, as many on a table-cloth, and, 
oh ! the darns on the stair-carpet ! 

If Rue were not mending, what else could 
she be doing? 

Rue did not love to mend ; indeed, she did not 
love the feminine occupation of using her needle 
at all, and she had not yet learned to love to 
do what she did not love to do. 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. H3 

“I can think,” she always consoled herself 
over her undainty work ; “ nothing can hinder 

me from thinking.” 

She could study as well as think, for there 
was always a book in her work-basket. She cut 
the chamois into long strips, threaded a coarse 
needle with coarse black thread, opened Burke, 
keeping it open with the Bible Text Book, read 
a sentence thoughtfully, and drew the thread 
through the damp leather. She read the sen- 
tence again and again, taking slow stitches ; but 
the stitches were too slow, and her mind was 
wandering towards the all things that were 
working together for her. Did the all things 
mean everything, not one left out ? All the hap- 
penings of this uneventful rainy day ? And all 
the people, not one left out ? And was she one 
of the people that was working together with 
all the other people for good to some one who 
loved God ? Was her life — her silent, busy, hid- 
den life — working for goodto every one whom 
her life touched? Whom did her life touch? 
All the people at home and every one in the 
village that she thought about and prayed for, 
— every single one, from the minister down to 


114 


RUE'S HELPS. 


the laborer’s sick baby for whom she had knit 
socks. Even as she sat there drawing her needle 
with a twitch through the wet glove, she was 
working and working “ together,” — the blessed- 
ness of that “ together ” ! She felt alone some- 
times, as if there were no “ together” about 
anything in her life ; she wished that she could, 
know if there were anything anywhere work- 
ing with something somewhere for good to her 
this rainy, lonely day. She was praying for 
Will because God was thinking about him ; 
why should not some one be praying for her 
because God was thinking about her, that is, 
if any one could love her as she loved Will? 

At that very hour, while the needle was stick- 
ing in the glove and she was praying for run- 
away Will, the superintendent of the Sunday 
school was sitting in the minister’s study, talking 
in much perplexity to him about Mr. Taylor’s 
class of boys. 

“ He came to me yesterday, — ’t is n’t the first 
time by a great many, — discouraged about his 
class. He wants to give it up ; in fact, says he 
won’t teach them another Sunday. Only two 
of the boys came into Sunday school last Sun- 


ACCEPTED, AFTER ALL. 


115 


day ; Will Adams and the others hung around 
outside, and would n’t come in. I went out 
and tried to get them in ; he knew it, and feels 
angry about it. I know that he won’t come 
to-morrow ; those boys are a lawless set. Now, 
dominie, what am I going to do ? They behaved 
well in school when Ruth Erskine taught ; she 
seems to tame them. I wish I could find a 
lady to take them, but I can’t. Would Mrs. 
Willever, do you suppose ? ” 

“No, she will not ; but she will take Miss 
Rue’s class, and Miss Rue will take those boys. 
She is interested in those boys. I have been 
watching her and them for a year. Boys of 
their age are very much under the influence 
of a lady as attractive as she is ; there is 
something saintly about her, and they feel it, 
and she is a saint who loves them. I have seen 
Ed Angus’s face change at a glance from her.' 
She is the embodiment of all loveliness to him, 
and all lovingness, which is better still.” 

“ She is a very pleasant girl. I did n’t think 
of her. You are sure that Mrs. Willever will 
take her class ? ” 

“ Yes.” 


116 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ And about Miss Rue — ” 

“Ask her,” said the minister, smiling ; “ the 
crown of England is nothing in comparison.” 

“ I suppose that she would like to know to- 
day ; I am on my way to town, and will stop. 
But I suppose to-morrow will do ; I don’t know 
how to take the time, I ’ve stayed too long 
with you.” 

“ I will ask her. I want a breath of fresh 
air. I ’ll ride with you, if you please.” 

“ All right, come along ! I ’m glad to have it 
off my mind.” 

The gloves were mended and laid upon the 
mantel when the brass knocker summoned Rue 
to the front door. She was thinking of drop- 
ping down on the rug before the fire, with her 
head on the footstool, for a reverie or a nap, as 
it might chance, and was, therefore, not at all 
pleased with the sound of the knocker. 

“ Ah, Miss Rue,” said the minister, in his 
stately, grave fashion, “ good afternoon ! ” 

There was no fire in the parlor stove. Rue 
was glad that she had dusted the dining-room 
after dinner. 

He would not sit down ; it would be almost 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 


117 


dark before he could return. He stood upon the 
rug looking down into the fire. She stood beside 
him studying his head, — the fine forehead, the 
iron-gray hair, the heavy black brows ; his eyes 
were on the fire, she could not study them. 

The fire crackled, the clock ticked. Mr. Ireton 
stood looking down into the fire, thinking ; 
he was absent-minded sometimes. Perhaps he 
had come for some special thing and had forgot- 
ten his errand ; like a very human saint, Rue 
looked down at the spot on the bib of her ging- 
ham apron, and wished that she had taken the 
apron off before answering the knocker. She 
did not feel at all as if something were about to 
happen, or as if the minister with his absent- 
minded eyes were one of the all things that were 
working together for good to her, and yet here 
on the hearth-rug beside her was an answered 
prayer. It was some time before she remem- 
bered her wish of the morning that God’s will 
might be spoken to her through Mr. Ireton’s lips. 

“ Father is busy somewhere,” she ventured, 
watching his face as she broke the silence ; “ sit 
down, please, and I will find him.” 

“ Thank you, I can stay but a moment ; my 


118 


RUE'S HELPS. 


errand was to see you. Do you remember,” 
still looking into the fire, 44 how Mary Magda- 
lene and another Mary and Salome prepared 
sweet spices that they might anoint the body of 
Jesus? ” 

“ Yes, sir, I remember.” 

44 Did they anoint his body with them? ” 

44 No, sir ; he had risen.” 

44 It was very beautiful, precious, fragrant 
work, this preparation of the sweet spices, and 
Jesus knew all the time that they were doing it 
for him, that they were doing useless w r ork for 
him, that he would never need the spices, and 
yet he let them do the work that he could not 
accept in the sense of using ; that was rather 
hard for them, was it not ? ” 

“It wasn’t wasted,” said Rue, quickly, “be- 
cause he knew it was done for love of him.” 

44 Does that satisfy you when he does not 
accept your work?” 

44 About my teaching — has Mrs. Willever 
told you all about that ? ” asked Rue, coloring. 

44 Mrs. Willever has told me all about that ; 
Gertrude does not keep many things from me. 
Are you satisfied if he accept your preparation 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. H9 

to teach, as he accepted the preparation of the 
spices ? ” 

“No, not quite yet,” she faltered. 

“ Do you remember that they arose early in 
the morning and went to the sepulchre ? They 
found the stone rolled away, not to show them 
that they might do the work that they had 
planned, but to show them that they might not 
do it. Jesus was not there ; there was no need 
of their work. But the preparation of the 
spices had hurried Mary to the sepulchre, and 
because she was there ready to do the next 
thing, and standing without, weeping, she 
turned and saw the Lord. He had no need of 
her spices, but he had need of her services. He 
sent her with a message to his brethren. If she 
had not been ready with her spices, would she 
have been there ready for this ? She had come 
to anoint his dead body, she went away to obey 
his living voice. Did he not accept her prepa- 
ration and bless it a hundred-fold?” 

“ Yes,” said Rue, solemnly ; “ will he give me 
an errand that he likes better than my teaching 
school?” 

“I have come to tell you that. Mr. Taylor 


120 


RUE'S HELPS. 


has resigned his class in Sunday school, and the 
superintendent wishes you to take it,” he said 
quietly, still keeping his eyes upon the fire. 

Rue did not speak ; she clasped and unclasped 
her hands nervously. 

“ Well,” he said at last, smiling at the per- 
plexed, misty eyes. 

“ I have n’t been good and patient ; I don’t 
deserve it. Oh, I am too glad to say anything ! 
I do thank you very much, Mr. Ireton.” 

He buttoned his overcoat and moved towards 
the door. “ Mr. Graves brought me, and now 
I must travel back in the rain.” 

“ And you came just to tell me ! ” exclaimed 
Rue. 

“Wouldn’t you take a walk in the rain if 
you might be the bearer of such good news ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Indeed I would ; I ’d travel a hundred miles, 
if I could, if I could take such good news to you.” 

“ Mind you do when the time comes ; my 
regards to all. Good afternoon.” 

Rue locked and bolted the street door with 
eager fingers. “ Oh, Auntie, Auntie, where are 
you ? ” she called. “ Auntie, Auntie ! ” 


ACCEPTED , AFTER ALL. 


121 


Auntie was sewing carpet-rags in Mrs. Ers- 
kine’s chamber ; she opened the door and an- 
swered, “Well, Rue.” 

“ Come down, I want to tell you something,” 
said Rue, from the lowest stair. 

After she had danced around the dining-room 
table, and clapped her hands, and kissed Auntie’s 
nose, cheek, and chin, she was quieted suffi- 
ciently to tell her good news. 

“ I suppose that God likes this better than 
the teaching I had planned,” she said, seriously. 
“ Oh, I wish that I had been good and patient 
about it.” 

Rue’s last thought that night was given to 
her boys, and before the dawn she was awake, 
praying that through her they might receive 
good things from God. The six boys were all 
in the pew huddled together, wide awake and 
interested, when Mr. Graves introduced to them 
their new teacher. Will Adams, silent and 
subdued, was among them. Rue told Auntie 
that night that this hour in Sunday school had 
been the happiest hour that she had ever lived. 

“ Now you know what you were studying 
for,” said Auntie. 


III. 


AT THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 

Rue supposed that she and Grace loved each 
other as well as sisters usually do ; she felt that 
there could not be any deep affection with so lit- 
tle real companionship. Grace openly declared 
Rue to be “ queer,” while Rue privately acknowl- 
edged Grace to be unsympathetic and unsettled. 
They never disagreed, they had never quarrelled 
as children ; Grace was too good-humored, and 
Rue too aware of the hurt of hard words. Rue 
could not think of one taste that they shared to- 
gether. Rue’s books were “ stupid ” to Grace, 
and Grace’s choice of reading seemed silly to Rue. 
A new thought and a new voice were Rue’s 
greatest pleasures and treasures ; a new thought 
was as blank to Grace as an old one, and she had 
no understanding of the power of the human 
voice. Rue studied people ; Grace believed all 
pleasant people to be alike, and all disagreeable 
to be alike. Rue made the finest distinctions 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 123 

in a question of right and wrong ; Grace never 
could have known the difference between right 
and wrong, had not some one revealed it to her ; 
it was sinful to break the commandments, of 
course, because the Bible said so, but as to what 
was involved in the breaking or the keeping of 
them she had no intuition. This lack of moral 
distinctions she had inherited from her mother. 
With the utmost kindness of heart she possessed 
no sympathy ; rather, she could feel for the suf- 
ferer while not at all with him. She was easily 
influenced, copied the tones and phrases of those 
about her, and never could form an opinion until 
she had heard the matter discussed ; after a 
week’s acquaintance no one ever asked her opin- 
ion about anything. She was sweet and gay and 
prepossessing, at a first glance much more at- 
tractive than her quiet little sister. She had no 
nerves, no sensitiveness, and never had lain 
awake an hour because she was troubled in all 
her life. Without moods, without opinions, with 
a pretty face and an intense desire to please, to 
some she became a most attractive companion. 
She did not know that she must live for any- 
thing besides having a good time, and helping 


124 


RUE'S HELPS. 


along other people’s good times when that would 
not interfere too much with her own. Her 
strongest motive was to please ; Rue’s was to be 
pleasing. Grace’s motive in desiring to please 
was that she might be loved ; Rue’s motive in 
desiring to be pleasing was that she might be 
helpful. 

Grace behaved as if she loved every one ; Rue 
tried to love every one because Christ loved them 
and thought about them. 

Grace’s trunk was packed and standing in the 
hall near the back hall-door two days before 
Christmas. She had borrowed Rue’s slippers 
because they had velvet bows on them, and had 
left her old ones instead; she had taken the 
feather from Rue’s bonnet, and had coaxed for 
her hemstitched handkerchiefs and prettiest tie. 

“You won’t go anywhere, you never do ; you’ll 
stay at home and work, and be as stupid as ever. 
Nothing ever happens to you ; you won’t go any- 
where but to Sewing Society and the Parson- 
age and the Donation and church and Sunday 
School. You won’t go to one party, you know.” 

“ I have n’t anything to wear,” said Rue ; “my 
very best dress is an old brown merino.” 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT 125 

“ Yon don’t care for dress ; yon think about 
your boys and studying with Mrs. Willever. If 
you had a hundred dollars to-night you would n’t 
buy a silk dress.” 

“ I think I would n’t,” laughed Rue, leaning 
back against the wall. They were standing look- 
ing down at Grace’s trunk ; it was an old one 
that had crossed the sea many times. Captain 
Erskine had corded it with a piece of the clothes- 
line to make it perfectly secure. 

“ Father can’t exist without tying a piece of 
rope somewhere,” laughed Grace ; “ he has a bit 
of rope in his pocket this minute.” 

“ Are n ’t you a little bit sorry to go ? ” asked 
Rue, mournfully; “shan’t you be a little bit 
homesick ? ” 

“No; why should I ? I ’ve been there before. 
Nothing ever happens in Geneva ; I want to go 
where somebody is alive. You were born to be 
a nun. See how little company you ’ll have this 
winter. Father says that he can’t have Mite So- 
ciety or Sewing Society here this winter ; I sup- 
pose he ’ll have prayer-meetings, because they 
don’t eat anything. I shan’t come home till I’m 
sent for, you may believe that. I expect Auntie 


126 


RUE'S HELPS. 


is homesick to go with me ; she saj^s Cousin Ra- 
chel’s house is a nest of comfort. Mother did n’t 
like it because she broke a china cup just now, 
and Auntie looked so mournful when she spoke 
of Cousin Rachel. She has a standing invita- 
tion from Cousin Rachel to spend the last year 
of her life with her.” 

“ She can’t go,” said Rue, decidedly, holding 
the candlestick crookedly and dropping the tal- 
low on the trunk ; “ how could I live without 
her?” 

“ Mother can ’t be happy with her, that ’s a 
fact ; don’t you see how uneasy they are to- 
gether?” 

“Yes,” said Rue, sadly, wondering why her 
prayers that her mother should be more kind to 
Auntie were not answered. 

“ Mother is as kind as she can be,” Grace con- 
tinued, “but Auntie frets her so.” 

“ They are like sand of two colors poured 
into a jar,” said Rue, “ but Auntie and I are like 
wine and water poured together ; you can’t tell 
which is wine and which is water, but every- 
body in the house knows which is black sand 
and which is red.” 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT 127 

“Auntie cries a good deal when she is alone,” 
said Grace. 

“ Yes,” sighed Rue. 

“ Come, children, come to supper ! ” called 
their father’s voice. They went in to find their 
mother fretted, and Auntie’s eyelids red, and all 
for a china cup that the trembling old hands had 
dropped. Mrs. Erskine had forgotten that she 
would be old some day. 

There was no time for leave-taking in the 
morning; a hurried kiss all around; then Cap- 
tain Erskine shouted, “All aboard!” Grace 
caught up her shawl-strap and ran towards the 
kitchen-door, turning to look back at the group 
in the dining-room. Her mother was gazing 
at her fixedly, with a yearning in her eyes that 
Grace, at twenty-five, caught for the first time. 
Rue was standing, with a milk-pitcher in one 
hand and a plate of bread in the other, looking 
after her half sadly. Auntie, standing before 
the fire, was the only one to give a second good- 
by. “ Good-by, Grace ; I ’ve been watching 
people come and go, a good many years.” 

Grace did not care for backward glances, but 
she always remembered Auntie standing before 
the fire. 


128 


RUE'S HELPS . 


“ I ’ye tried to think about the people who 
come and go,” said Auntie to herself. 

Grace was not a letter- writer ; she had warned 
Rue not to expect a letter oftener than once 
a month, unless, indeed, her fortune came to 
her. Grace counted much on her “ fortune.” 
Rue wondered often what Grace’s fortune would 
be, and what would hers be like ? Was it com- 
ing every day, and was a part of it coming to- 
day? 

The old year ended with a golden sunset ; all 
gold, pure shining gold. Rue watched it and 
made resolutions, — she was not yet beyond the 
resolution-making stage, — and then rejoiced 
that the old year was over, and a new year, 
that only God knew about, would be given her 
to-morrow. Perhaps this year would bring 
her answered prayer; perhaps this year Jesus 
would have compassion. Whoever sees both 
sides of an answered prayer? They who ob- 
serve these things, for they understand the 
loving-kindness of the Lord. 

The minister in his study was learning the 
other side of her prayer, but he was thinking of 
it as his side of his prayer. It was not in this 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 129 

new year that they learned together both sides 
of their answered prayer. On his knees, with 
his head in his hands, while Rue was watching 
the sunset of gold, the minister was praying 
about her, for her, and for himself, not with 
any will of his own ; he was willing to wait any 
time, God’s time, for God’s will to be done for 
them both. 

And unconscious Rue, not knowing man’s 
plan and God’s plan, that were working together 
for her good, watched the sunset, set the supper- 
table, studied Paley’s Natural Theology, made 
her mother a cup of ginger-tea, and went to bed, 
the last night of her old year, very sleepy and 
very thankful. 

The first week of the new year opened with 
rain. The roads became almost impassable. For 
two days not one carriage passed the house 
excepting twice a day the mail-stage ; and 
one day the mail-carrier passed, with his large 
locked leathern bag, on horseback, and Rue felt 
as if it were a hundred years ago, and imagined 
that Auntie must be spinning by the fire. 

The first week of the new year would have 
been a dreary time to Rue but for an occasional 


9 


130 


RUE’S HELPS. 


sunset, the fire on the hearth, a word of cheer 
now and then from Auntie, and the ever-joyful 
remembrance of her answered prayer about her 
boys. She did not tell even Auntie, but she 
had been praying over a year that she might 
teach that class of boys. It was very sweet 
to know something that only herself and God 
knew. The secret prayer had brought the open 
rewaid. 

The mail brought no word to Paul ; he worked 
carelessly and moodily, refused to attend 
school, saying that he would soon find an 
opening somewhere. Mrs. Erskine sighed and 
groaned and talked from morning until night, 
reviewing the past thanklessly, and forecasting 
the new year with even more than her usual 
distrust. Captain Erskine, always impressed by 
his wife’s moods, became silent and stern, find- 
ing fault with Auntie for putting an extra stick 
of wood into the fire when it was near bed- 
time, advising her coldly to be kinder and more 
considerate towards his wife if she valued her 
present home, giving Rue short answers, and 
seeing no good thing in any work that Paul 
attempted. Captain Erskine, while assured of 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 131 

his perfect self-control, his utter lack of preju- 
dices, and his own most strong individuality, 
was yet continually repeating his wife’s words, 
and continually looking at life through her 
eyes. Mrs. Erskine would have been awe- 
struck could she have understood the extent of 
her unconscious influence in her own household. 
And yet, when she prayed every night, she 
prayed to be made “ good.” 

The enforced patience in her father’s voice 
when he paced the dining-room, as was his habit 
every evening after supper, singing, 

“ Oh, may my heart in tune be found,” 

touched Rue’s heart to the quick. 

And what was it all about, this enforced, 
dreary kind of patience, this patience not of 
hope? Nothing at all, except that Paul was 
discontented, that Auntie could not please his 
wife, and that his wife could not look upon the 
light of things. Rue worked too hard ; he re- 
gretted that. The minister’s sermons were not 
always practical, and he had views concerning 
election that he could not sympathize with ; 
the prayer-meetings were not well attended, and 
he had kept his potatoes too long and had thus 


132 


RUE'S HELPS. 


lost five cents on the bushel. These things were 
wearing enough ; Rue heard them recapitulated 
nearly every day, but his chief cause of unrest 
Rue had no thought of. He had decided to go 
to sea again, and he dreaded it with dread un- 
speakable. It was impossible to “ make both 
ends meet ” on the farm, and his wife was not 
satisfied; that latter reason would have sent 
him, in her service, to the ends of the earth. 

Mrs. Erskine, even in her widowhood, never 
learned the power she had wielded in a good 
man’s life ; what other thing than he was he 
might have been but for her, she never 
thought. 

Rue had knowledge of this ; she could not 
love her father so well, and not understand. . In 
her heart grew a little, trembling hope or fear, 
she could scarcely be conscious which, — might 
she become a hinderer or a helper in some 
good man’s life ? And might she choose, was 
she every day choosing, which it should be ? 

In the new year that should have been, that 
might have been, so hopeful and happy, Rue 
was so sorry for her father. 

His wife’s words rang unceasingly in his ears : 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 133 

“A seafaring man, if lie goes back to sea, is 
always lost! There was Captain Josh Grey and 
Captain Henry Baldwin.” 

He wished that he might take Bue ; the child 
needed rest and change, and oh ! what a com- 
fort she would be ! He was walking up and 
down humming, 

“ How happy are they 
Who their Saviour obey,” 

when the thought came to him. He stopped 
suddenly, standing perfectly still looking at 
her ; she was sitting at the table teaching Paul 
how to write decimals. 

“ Rue, do you want to go to Europe ? ” he 
asked with much animation. 

“ Do I ? Don’t I ? I think I do ! Who is 
going ? Are you ? ” 

“ Mother, may I take your girl away from 
you ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, I don’t care, if she wants to go. You 
will need somebody,” replied Mrs. Erskine. 

“Why, father, you are not going?” cried 
Rue, staying her pencil. “ Oh ! are you 
going? ” 

He laughed, patted her head, and resumed 


134 


RUE'S HELPS. 


his walk. “ You are only trying me,” said Rue ; 
“ you know that I ’m wild to go.” 

“ We ’ll sleep on it,” said her father. 

“He doesn’t want me to go,” thought Paul, 
bitterly; “he doesn’t like to have me With 
him.” 

The second week of the new year brought 
wind and snow. The snow drifted heavily. In 
many places the waysides and fields were piled 
high with snow, while the roads were nearly 
bare ; the few sleighs that were out ran close to 
the fences. 

“ Rue, you need a holiday,” said Mrs. Erskine 
one Wednesday morning ; “suppose you go up 
to the Parsonage and stay all day instead of 
your afternoon for study ? ” 

“ I would like it,” said Rue, earnestly. 

“ Then run and get ready ; father will take 
you on his way to mill, and Paul can go and 
bring you home.” 

“ I ’ll come home myself ; I ’ll come early. 
Perhaps it will be good walking; if it isn’t, 
I ’ll sink through to China.” 

More than once during the day Rue sighed in 
the fulness of her satisfaction. It was restful 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT 135 

simply to be rid of the old, wearing home 
topics ; restful not to watch her father’s face, 
not to be ready to ward off an uncomforting and 
uncomfortable word spoken to Auntie ; restful 
not to be jarred by her father’s voice speaking 
commandingly to Paul ; restful not to fear a 
saucy or sullen reply from Paul. Not that every 
day witnessed these little trials, but any hour 
might bring any of them, might bring all of 
them. There was never any day in which one 
of them was not laid upon her to bear. 

And here in the wide, sunny Parsonage, from 
garret to cellar, were love, sympathy, appre- 
ciation, a recognition of all they were to each 
other, refined voices, a touch or word that meant 
a caress, no fretting over the past, no bemoan- 
ing the future ; the trustful to-day life was most 
restful of all, no one was afraid, there was 
nothing and no one in all the world to be afraid 
of. Mrs. Willever was Rue’s ideal of mother 
and sister, and Mr. Ireton in his fatherhood was 
seeking to teach his children to trust in the 
fatherhood of God. The children danced around 
Rue when they found her at noon, upon their 
entrance from school, and three pairs of arms 


136 


RUE'S HELPS. 


were about her neck at one time. She promised 
to stay until the afternoon session of school 
closed, that they might have one hour with her. 
And then she must wait for a very early tea, 
and Lou must play for her ; and then Lou and 
Persis must walk dpwn the hill, and they must 
walk slowly to prolong the pleasure. 

“ You ’ll be sorry that you did n’t wait for 
papa to come back and take you home,” Lou 
called back ; “ it ’s getting dark.” 

It was not a long walk; she was a brisk 
walker ; even if the darkness should overtake 
her, she would not be startled. 

Taking careful steps, now in the road, now 
by the wayside near the fence, holding tightly 
her borrowed books, — Whittier, and a work 
on Zoology, — lest she should drop them into 
the snow, her thoughts ran on towards home. 
How would she find them ? She reminded her- 
self of herself as a little girl, going home from 
school, wondering if her mother would be cross, 
and if the dinner-dishes would be left for her to 
wash. They would all be glad to see her to- 
night, she was sure ; her father might speak 
sharply because she had stayed so late, but that 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 137 

could not take the brightness away from her day; 
perhaps her mother would be telling a story of 
theft or murder out of the newspaper ; would 
Auntie’s eyelids be red, and how would Paul 
greet her ? Had he and her father had another 
misunderstanding about some little thing, some- 
thing to be done in the barn, or something 
about the horses ? 

If her father were like Mr. Ire ton, could Paul 
be like himself? The old weariness settled 
down, with the lights of the Parsonage not 
half a mile behind her; the Parsonage was 
Elim, and she was travelling on to Marah, where 
the bitter water was. “The healed water.” 
She could hear Auntie’s voice. The mud and 
water seemed to be growing deeper and deeper. 
One rubber had come off, and in the darkness 
she could not find it. She stooped, but her 
hand came in contact with mud. She would 
soil the books if she soiled her fingers; she 
would lose the rubber again. It seemed to be 
growing darker every instant ; she remembered 
that clouds had gathered about noon, and a 
storm was threatening. The other rubber fol- 
lowed its mate. She stood irresolute ; should she 
go home or back to the Parsonage ? 


138 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ They will not expect me home now,” she 
said aloud, for the companionship of her own 
voice, “ and they will all be so glad to have me 
at the Parsonage. If it were not that mother 
does n’t like to get up to get breakfast, I believe 
I would.” 

She plodded on, slipping in ankle deep more 
than once, and again stood undecided whether 
to go on or return to the Parsonage. Behind 
her shone the lights of the village, and a half- 
mile farther on, the light from their own sit- 
ting-room window. They had certainly said 
among themselves by this time, that she was in- 
tending to remain at the Parsonage. It would 
be so much easier to go back. They would sit 
in the study, perhaps, and Mr. Ireton would 
read aloud, Mrs. Willever would sew, and Lou 
would nestle her head and her hands in Rue’s 
lap ; it would be dark outside, but the perfec- 
tion of home within. When she had a home of 
her very own it should be like the Parsonage. 
But she must go on, that is, if she could get 
her feet out of the mud. If she could n’t, she 
must stick there all night ; that would be a lif- 
tle better than sinking in and coming out in 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 139 

China. With an effort and a laugh, holding 
the books tightly, she extricated her foot and 
stood apparently on dry land. 

“ I ’ll go on home,” she said aloud. “ I have 
to get ready to go over the sea. I mustn’t 
forget that.” 

But the step toward home was the step that 
changed her plans ; she thought afterward, 
that if she had returned to the Parsonage, she 
might have gone over the sea. She thought, 
but who knows? Her next decision, taken in- 
stantly, was to climb the fence and go through 
the snow ; it certainly could not be as toilsome 
as the mud, and it was so much cleaner. Cross- 
ing one field and finding it more rapid walking, 
she climbed another fence and went bravely 
on ; she was at home now, this was their own 
last summer’s cornfield. Her skirts were wet 
and dragging heavily, her breath became shorter, 
and how her heart was beating ! There was no 
sound, near or far ; the clouds must hang very 
low for it to be so dark ; the rain or snow, 
she could not distinguish which, was beating 
against her face. Deeper and deeper her steps 
were falling ; the snow was soft and becoming 


140 


RUE'S HELPS. 


deeper at every step ; had she taken herself 
into a snow-bank ? Her father had pointed out 
a drifted pile of snow that morning ; was it on 
this side of the road, and had she plunged into 
it? Her heart did not beat fast now, it almost 
stood still; she could feel its shape, so large, 
so full. Another and another feeble, faltering 
step, to plunge not more deeply but just as 
deeply into the clinging snow ; it was fastening 
itself to her, it was crowding her down, it was 
stifling her, and yet she could only go on ; it 
would be just as crowding, stifling, pushing, to 
go back, and which was back? Was that the 
sitting-room light at home? Was the Parson- 
age before or behind? Were the books safe? 
Plodding on and on, half sobbing, with a cry for 
help on her lips and a call to Jesus in her heart, 
she sank at every step deeper. She could not 
stand still ; turning back or going on, one was 
the same as the other. How her father would 
spring if he could hear her voice ! Another 
step dragged through and another ; this last was 
not so deep, nor this, nor this. Was the snow 
falling back, or had she risen above it ; was she 
flying over it? Not many more steps, and she 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 141 

could walk almost easily, the snow was below 
her knees, her skirts were not so heavy. Were 
the books safe ? Would they be expecting her 
at home ? 

Reaching a fence by the wayside at last, she 
leaned against it and breathed ; she could 
breathe, she could lift her feet. Her heart was 
choking her with its rapid pulsation, her mit- 
tens were gone, her cloud had fallen off and 
clung to her neck, but the books were safe. 
No sound near or far ? Coming nearer, through 
the snow and mud and water, she recognized 
a sound; had Paul started out to find her? 
Were there two horses or one? Ought she to 
speak ? She climbed the fence and went out to 
the road. 

“Hallo!” cried a voice. It was not Paul’s 
voice, nor her father’s. “ Hallo,” the voice re- 
peated, as the horse was stopped. 

“ Will you ride ? ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Ireton ! ” 

“ Why, Miss Rue ! ” 

“ Oh, do please take me home ! ” half laughing 
and wholly crying. “ I ’ve been drowned in 
a snow-bank.” 


142 


RUE'S HELPS. 


In an instant he was at her side. “ My poor 
little daughter ! Did you hear my bells ? ” 

“ I don’t know what I heard,” said Rue, con- 
quering her sobs. “ I don’t know where I ’ve 
been.” 

“ I know where you ’ll go to ; I ’ll take you 
home with me.” 

“ Oh no, sir. I must go home ; they ’ll be 
worrying about me. I suppose they thought 
that I would stay all night, because I did n’t 
get home before dark.” 

Seated in the sleigh wrapped in the robe, she 
could almost catch her breath and talk. 

“ What should I have done if you had n’t 
come ? ” she exclaimed gratefully. 

“There couldn’t be any ‘hadn’t come,’” 
he said lightly ; “ don’t you hope that I ’ll 
always come when you are in a snow-bank ? ” 

“ Either you or father ; father would have 
come.” 

“ Are you very wet ? I wish that I could see 
you.” 

“ I don’t. I ’m a sight ! Will you drop me 
at the gate so that I may run around to the 
back door and up to my room and change my 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 143 

clothing before any one sees me? They will 
all be so worried ; mother would send for the 
doctor to-night.” 

“ Are you able to take care of yourself? ” 

“ Oh yes, — I’m only tired.” 

“ I will wait until I see you inside your 
door ; strike a light in your own room, and then 
I ’ll go on and feel safe about you.” 

“Don’t tell Mrs. Willever and the girls to- 
night.” 

“ They will all be down here to-morrow if 
I do.” 

“I suppose I couldn’t help it,” said Rue. 
“ I do thank you very much.” 

“ For what, pray ? ” 

“ I ought to like to hear you preach,” said 
Rue after a pause. 

“ Because I am so eloquent,” he said gravely. 

“No, because you are so good to me.” 

“Poor little daughter,” he said again, “be 
sure and not take cold. Do you know how to 
take care of yourself?” 

“ Oh yes, sir.” 

He stopped at the large gate, sprang out, and 
lifted his wet little burden to the ground. He 


144 


RUE'S HELPS. 


heard her open the back hall-door, and a 
moment afterward a light flashed from the win- 
dow of her chamber. Half an hour later, while 
( her father dozed over the Agriculturist, and her 
mother read the newspaper in the intervals of 
her darning stockings, and Paul and Auntie dis- 
coursed about farming, the sitting-room door 
opened softly, and Rue entered, in dry clothing 
from head to foot, her hair rather wet, however, 
and with a feverish light in eye and cheek. 

“ Why, Rue ! ” exclaimed her mother, “ when 
did you come ? ” 

“ A little while ago,” said Rue, slipping into 
the chair nearest Auntie. 

“ You did n’t walk ! ” cried Paul. 

“ A part of the way,” she said faintly, lean- 
ing her elbows upon the table. 

“ You ’ve taken cold ; you look so ! ” said her 
mother in alarm. “ Come to the fire, and heat 
the soles of your feet, while I make you some- 
thing warm to drink.” 

Rue obeyed reluctantly. She did not feel like 
stirring. Her father opened his eyes, changed 
his position, and looked at her. Rue shaded 
her eyes with her hand, and would not turn 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 145 

towards him ; she was rather afraid of the 
rebuke that she felt too weak to take. 

“ Your mother said, that if you did not stay 
all night you would come home early,” he said. 

“ They coaxed me so hard, and I forgot 
that it was growing dark,” answered Rue, as 
brightly as she could. 

“ You did a very foolish thing,” he said, lean- 
ing back and closing his eyes again. 

Rue smiled to herself, thinking that *he did 
not half know how true it was. Having heated 
her feet and drank the steaming cup of ginger 
tea, her mother wrapped her in a shawl and 
hurried her up to bed. Her last thought was 
thankfulness for being so soft and warm and 
comfortable. She was awakened by a light 
flashing across her eyes and her mother’s voice 
asking anxiously, “ Do you feel as if you had 
taken cold, Rue ? ” 

“ Oh no, ma’am,” she answered sleepily, 
“ I ’m as comfortable as a bird in a nest.” 

But she was not comfortable the next day, 
nor the next ; the pain in her side increased, 
and her cough became more frequent. She con- 
fessed to herself many times a day that she did 


10 


146 


RUE'S HELPS. 


not feel “quite strong.” Her mother made 
boneset tea, and kept paregoric and molasses in 
a china cup on the sideboard for her to taste 
every two hours, cautioned her about doing too 
much, urged her to retire early, and would not 
permit her to come down stairs until after 
breakfast. Rue enjoyed the petting, and almost 
cried when she was alone, because she was not 
good and people loved her so much. Something 
real to think about engrossed her mother’s mind 
to such an extent that her unreal trials were 
commented upon more rarely. Rue began to 
see the good that was coming out of her walk 
through a snow-bank ; great good must come, 
she reasoned, for had it not brought her the 
immeasurable disappointment of giving up her 
boys in Sunday school ? The doctor had forbid- 
den her to go out at all until spring. Every other 
consideration was light in comparison to her 
boys, and she would have risked her health to 
serve them had not her father added the weight 
of his command. The tears that she shed were 
uncounted ; it seemed so strange that God 
should treat her so when the boys needed her 
and she needed them. Paul had yielded to his 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 147 

father’s wish and attended the village school. 
He must wait for an opening to learn a trade, 
and meanwhile school would be the best place 
for him. 

“ I ’d have given the world to go to school 
when I was your age,” he said. 44 1 ’ve spent my 
spare time in study, as it is. I might have been 
something if I had known something.” 

Rue was unselfishly and selfishly glad of 
Paul’s attendance at school. Every afternoon 
she lay on the lounge watching the clock, and 
hailed the first sight and sound of the boys and 
girls on the hill coming from school, for Paul 
every day brought her letters from her boys. 
Will Adams wrote every day, the others two or 
three times during the week. The hour before 
sunset was her weary, lonely time, as it had 
been for months, indeed ever since her health 
began to fail, and it was with an intense long- 
ing that she watched the clock, and now and 
then raised her head to look up the road 
towards the school-house. In the evening she 
felt stronger, and sat, as usual, at the table 
studying and writing. 

44 She will not live long,” her father said to 
her mother. 


148 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Yes, she will,” affirmed her mother ; “ yon ’ll 
see spring will do wonders. Auntie says that 
she ’s worn out.” 

The youngest little girl at the Parsonage was 
taken ill in February. Mrs. Willever gave her- 
self completely to caring for the child, therefore 
her visits to Rue ceased entirely. Rue missed 
her more than she had thought possible. The 
minister called every week, bringing a book or 
a note from his sister ; although Rue was always 
glad to see him at the gate, she could not feel 
“ at home ” with him, he was so wise, so spirit- 
ual-minded, always upon the heights, and she 
was so ignorant, so at a loss for a good reply 
and had so little to say about herself, and he 
seemed to care to hear about herself, that she 
was afraid that the hour was very dull for him. 
Auntie usually sat near and talked or listened, 
and often her mother poured forth one continu- 
ous flow of words ; her father sometimes came 
in to discuss a point in theology, or to mourn 
over the state of the church. If the time were 
so very dull, he was repaid by thinking that he 
had done his duty and pleased his sister, Rue 
thought. If she might have been alone with 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 149 

him, she thought that she would love to talk to 
him and ask him questions. 

She did ask him a question one afternoon; 
she never forgot his reply. 

“ Mr. Ireton, don’t you know one time when 
Moses is praying for the people, God says to 
him, 4 Let me alone ,’ and he kept on praying 
forty days and forty nights for them, notwith- 
standing ; now, why did n’t he obey God and 
let him alone ? ” 

“ Because God didn’t let him alone,” was the 
quick reply. 

In March there came a great shock to Rue ; 
the youngest little daughter at the Parsonage 
died. Rue was very quiet, she took grief qui- 
etly ; but for a while she felt utterly unnerved. 
Mrs. Willever brought the two little girls to 
comfort her, but she could only caress them 
with silent tears. In all her life no one that 
she loved had ever died. 

Early one evening, while she was yet weak 
from the shock, in passing her brother’s cham- 
ber door she was startled by the sound of re- 
pressed weeping. The boy had eaten no supper, 
and their father’s face had been sterner than 


150 


RUE’S HELPS. 


usual at the supper-table. Rue’s lively efforts 
to draw him into conversation had wholly 
failed ; she had overheard her father’s voice in 
its loudest, angriest tones from the workshop 
as soon as Paul came from school, and had been 
seeking to forget it ever since. Placing her 
candle on a small green chest that stood under 
the hall window, she listened, with her hand 
on the knob of Paul’s door. 

“Paul,” she said, pushing the door open, 
“ Paul ! ” The sound ceased, she pushed the 
door wider open. “ Paul,” she whispered. 

Paul lay stretched at full length on the bed, 
with his face in the pillow ; the moonlight 
shone on his yellow hair. She knelt on the 
carpet at the head of the bed and laid her hand 
on his shoulder. The pillow-case was crumpled, 
and wet with tears. 

“ What is it, Paul ? ” she asked, bringing her 
lips close to his hair. 

“You must n’t stay up here — in the cold,” he 
said chokingly ; “ it will make you cough.” 

“ No, it won’t ; tell me what ’s the matter.” 

“ Nothing. I ’ve been awful wicked, — I was 
ugly to father and he scolded me, and I said aw- 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT 151 

ful things to him ; he said that he never thought 
a son of his could talk so to him, and I said I ’d 
go away, and he said go, if I wanted to ! ” 

“ Is that why you are so sorry, because you ’ve 
been so wicked ? ” 

“ Yes ; it was my fault. I do things to make 
him mad.” 

Rue’s head was close to his on the pillow. 
Years ago, when he was a curly-headed little 
boy, he used to sleep with her. At night she 
would tell him stories to put him to sleep ; 
he always liked best “ about father’s coming 
home” and “about living on a farm.” Once 
he had asked her, “ Shall we be wicked when 
we are on the farm ? ” The “ farm ” in his child- 
ish heart was a thought of heaven. 

Would he be wicked, poor boy? Rue remem- 
bered the question, keeping her head close to 
his. 

“ Is that why you feel so badly, because you 
have been wicked ? ” 

“ Yes,” he said almost inaudibly. 

She could have talked to Will, or Ed, or 
any of the others ; but her lips trembled, her 
throat grew dry when she tried to talk to her 


152 


RUE'S HELPS. 


own brother. She rubbed with her fingers the 
coarse cloth of his jacket, and could not speak. 

Did he think her unsympathetic? Was he 
thinking how she would talk to Will? What 
could she say? He knew, as well as she, all 
that was in her heart for him. 

Love and silence were sometimes best. They 
must be best now, for she had nothing better 
to give. Paul did not stir ; he breathed heavily. 
Was he wishing her away? Would it be best 
to kiss him and go ? 

Suddenly, — her own words startled her ; 
her lips spoke before she was aware that her 
heart had fashioned the thought, — “ Shall I 
pray, Paul?” He said “Yes” in a smothered 
voice. 

Very low, hurried, and eager were her few 
words. She thanked Jesus the Lord because he 
loved them so much, and asked him to forgive 
all their sins and keep them from sinning again, 
to make them all love each other and be patient 
with each other ; then she prayed for her boys, 
asking penitent hearts for them, hearts hungry 
for the truth, for Jesus’ sake. Then she kissed 
him shyly, and arose and went out. 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 153 

If she had known that she was to do this 
thing she would have counted it a hard thing to 
do ; but with the inspiration came the help. 
She had never prayed aloud in the presence of 
any one before ; she was even shy about kneel- 
ing to pray at night in the few times that she 
had slept with Auntie. She loved to be alone 
with God, and she could not feel alone with a 
disturbing presence in the room. Usually she 
did not care to hear any one speak to God ; 
their voices or their phrases jarred. Mr. Ireton 
was an exception. Nothing in the world moved 
her heart like his prayers ; it might be the sweet 
reverent voice or the fitting words, or it might 
be, it must be, that he lived always so near the 
Lord that his prayers were but a continuation 
of his ordinary daily words. He was speaking 
to her, and then he was speaking to Jesus, and 
he spoke to Jesus about the same things. The 
opening of his prayer was often the finishing of 
a thought that he had been giving to her. The 
opening words of his prayer that afternoon had 
not left her : “ Our dear Father, art thou not 
too kind to us ? ” 

These few moments with Paul, the call from 


154 


RUE’S HELPS. 


Mr. Ireton, and her letters from her boys were 
the events of that day. Truly, her unquiet days 
were very quiet days. 

“ Auntie, nothing ever happens to me,” she 
said, opening the dining-room door to find 
Auntie alone before the fire. 

She extinguished her candle, turned down 
the wick of the kerosene lamp that was burn- 
ing upon the table, and came to the fire. It 
was very natural for her to drop down on the 
rug and rest her head upon the footstool, bring- 
ing her hair very near the toes of Auntie’s 
slippers. 

“ If you mean that nothing comes to you by 
hap, I agree with you.” 

Rue laid her hands together in her lap and 
thought about it. Did nothing happen then? 
Was every event — her boys’ letters, the minis- 
ter’s kindness, her father’s kiss, her mother’s 
surprise in the way of cookery to tempt her 
appetite, the good words from Auntie, Paul’s 
undemonstrative affection, that lovely book 
from Mrs. Willever, and the photograph of the 
Madonna from Grace — because God thought 
about her and loved to please her? Oh, was 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 155 

he not “too kind” to her? How happy were 
her quiet days then ! As holy and happy and 
quiet as the days of Moses in the back side of 
the desert. Elijah was sent there, and Paul 
and Moses ; the back side of that desert must 
have been a good place to learn in. 

“ Auntie,” were her next quick words, 
“ what did Moses do all that forty years in the 
back side of the desert ? ” 

“There’s one thing he didn’t do,” said 
Auntie, with energy ; “ he did n’t prepare him- 
self to hear the message of the Lord.” 

“ How do you know, Auntie ? ” asked Rue ; 
“ he did hear it and obey it.” 

“ But how did he feel when it came to him ? 
Long ago the thought had come into his heart 
that he was called to deliver his brethren out 
of their bondage, and he tried to do it in his 
own way, and failed miserably, so miserably 
that he was forced to flee for his life. Remem- 
ber, child, that even if you know that the 
thought in your heart is from God, you must 
not be rash and run ahead of his teaching ; you 
must follow, not lead.” 

“Follow in the dark?” queried Rue. 


156 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Who says anything about the dark ? Christ 
says, — and do you want anything better than 
his words ? — ‘I am the light of the world : he 
that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, 
but shall have the light of life.’ Now, if you 
follow , you follow in the light. Remember, it ’s 
a promise. O Rue, dear child, I want you to 
enjoy all your inheritance. Remember, I shall 
leave behind me all the promises. You are be- 
ing made ready to do a blessed thing for the 
Lord. It is n’t needful for you to know what ; 
if you follow him in loving obedience, he will 
tell you by and by. You could not receive it 
now ; he knows it, and is keeping his secret 
from you, and keeping it for you.” 

“ That sounds metaphysical and transcenden- 
tal,” almost laughed Rue, her face flushing with 
the thought that then God would use all of her- 
self for himself ; but why was God keeping her 
future from her ? If she might know this intan- 
gible something, couldn’t she study and pray 
about it ? 

“Must I wait long, Auntie?” she asked 
eagerly. 

“ Until the very minute that God is ready to 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT 157 

give, and that will be the very first minute that 
you are ready to receive.” 

“ Perhaps the lessons are long and hard.” 

“ Long, probably, but not hard, — not hard 
unless you keep your eyes on yourself and the 
events in your life, instead of upon him. Fol- 
low not your own thoughts, — God hates vain 
thoughts, — not the thoughts of others ; follow 
him . Study the words of Jesus. Some time, 
soon, I am hoping, I shall go home. When 
you look into my dead face, don’t think about 
me, think this : Study the words of Jesus . Will 
you? ” Auntie asked solemnly. 

“ If I can,” promised Rue, as solemnly. 

“ God will find your work for you, as he 
found the work for Moses, and you will find 
it for yourself, as Moses found it for himself. 
Moses did no good to himself nor to any one 
else by running ahead. God sent him to the 
back side of the desert, through his mistake, 
and there he had time to think about it, to ask 
God to keep him from forgetting it, to ask God 
to make him ready to hear him as soon as he 
spoke again, — for it was again ; I know that it 
was God speaking to him when the thought 
came into his heart.” 


158 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Rue’s heart trembled ; were her hopes, her 
prayers, the things she wanted, his voice in her 
heart, too ? 

“ Do you understand, child ? ” 

“ I wish that I could tell you how well I 
understand,” said Rue, resting her hand on 
the toe of Auntie’s slipper. Even the toe of 
Auntie’s slipper was a help to her. 

“ I think that there will be no iack of service 
in your life ; you will give all to God, every 
breath.” 

“ I try to now,” thought Rue. 

“ You may be tossed, tempted, tantalized ; 
all you can do is to hold on. Remember, 
child,” — how often Auntie had said “ remember 
during the past few days, — “ if you feel that it 
is God’s will for you to do a thing, — it may be 
and it may not be, he will take care of that, — 
but if you feel it so, don’t give up hoping and 
praying until he makes the thing impossible to 
you.” 

Rue drew a long breath. “ That is hold- 
ing on.” 

“ Don’t say, ‘ Lord, this is the way,* but 
‘ Lord, is this the way ? ’ Don’t show him the 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT. 159 

way you want to take ; stand still till he bid 
you go forward. Your work is coming to meet 
you just as truly as you are going forth to meet it. 
He is working for you all this time that he is 
working in you. Don’t be afraid of making 
mistakes. Make mistakes, if you don’t know 
any better. Moses’s mistake did not hurt him, 
neither will yours hurt you. In God’s plan 
there is room for all your mistakes. You don’t 
know how wise his wisdom is. Keep hold, keep 
on. And when it comes, don’t say, like Moses, 

4 1 am slow of speech and of a slow tongue.’ 
Suppose you are ; why should n’t you be, human 
child ? The Lord said to him, — oh, how I love 
to think of it ! — ‘ Who hath made man’s 
mouth ? or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, 
or the seeing, or the blind ? Have not I, the 
Lord?’” 

“ I do shrink when I think that I am slow of 
speech,” said Rue. 

“ Moses thought about himself ; he did not 
think about the power of God. Just think, 
because of his backwardness and excuses the 
anger of the Lord was kindled against Moses, — 
the anger of him who is slow to anger. Moses 


160 


RUE'S HELPS. 


must have been very provoking. And because 
Moses drew back, thinking of himself, God 
gave the honor of the priesthood to Aaron ; 
because Moses pleaded his slow tongue the 
Lord made Aaron his spokesman unto the peo- 
ple.” 

“ I suppose that Moses was glad not to be 
spokesman,” said Rue ; “ but, oh ! how sorry 
he must have been that he would n’t do all that 
God called him to do ! ” 

“ And he could n’t go into the Land of Prom- 
ise either, because he dishonored God with his 
lips. He was n’t so slow of speech that time. 
O Moses, Moses ! you did lose a great deal of 
work for God. Why didn’t you follow him 
fully, like Joshua? ” 

“ Perhaps, when he was in the desert, he 
thought more about his sons and his sheep and 
his wife than he did about expecting God to 
speak to him again,” said Rue. “I am sorry 
that he did n’t do all that he might have done ; 
he must have been so sorry when he remembered 
that he did n’t use all of himself for God.” 

“ Are you growing stronger? ” asked Auntie, 
tenderly. 


THE BACK SIDE OF THE DESERT 161 

“ Yes, indeed. Think of all the things I 
have done to-day. The first mild day I am to 
have a ride. I shall have my boys again before 
summer is over. I don’t believe they like Mr. 
Ireton. I think they are afraid of him. They 
think that he was never just such a boy as they 
are, and I don’t believe he ever was,” she added, 
laughing. 

She lighted a candle for herself and one for 
Auntie. They said “good-night” at Auntie’s 
door. Rue wished that Auntie might have a 
fire in her chamber. Auntie said that the 
nights were long and sometimes cold, but her 
father had decided that he could not afford an- 
other fire. Another thing that Rue wanted 
was to earn money, and then Auntie should 
have slippers lined with fur, a fire all to herself 
with a cat and kittens purring before it, loaves 
of white sugar piled in her closet, and all the 
books she loved best printed in large type. 

“ Rue,” called her mother, as Rue passed her 
door, “ are your feet warm ? Come in and warm 
them.” 

“ They are warm, thank you,” said Rue, 
opening the door and putting her head in. 


ii 


162 


RUE'S HELPS 


“ Will you be ready to go with me in May ? ” 
asked her father. 

“ You are not going? ” she said incredulously. 

“ You ’ll see whether I will or not. Your 
mother says that you are not strong enough to 
go away alone, and she’s so sea-sick that she 
can’t go with you.” 

“ I won’t let you go then,” said Rue. “ Good 
night, father and mother.” 


IV. 


EVENTIDE. 

How hard to bear the disappointment was, Rue 
did not know until it was fully and finally 
decided by her father, her mother, and herself, 
after many talks by the dining-room fire and 
many talks around the air-tight in her mother’s 
room, that she was not sufficiently strong to 
venture upon a sea-voyage without the care of 
mother or sister. Mrs. Erskine could not risk 
another long attack of sea-sickness, and Grace 
had often declared that nothing should tempt 
her to cross the sea. 

“ Grace is no nurse, even if she could go,” 
urged Mrs. Erskine. “ Suppose you should die 
on the way out, and have to be thrown into the 
sea! Or suppose you should die on the way 
home, and be brought home dead, like Olive 
Grey; her coffin was a sight, it was so large. 
Or you might have to be buried in a foreign 
country, and some day have your grave torn 


164 


RUE'S HELPS. 


open, like the ones I saw in Bordeaux, because 
the poor people couldn’t pay for the graves 
before seven years. I saw a poor woman 
weeping — ” 

“ But all three could n’t happen to me,” 
laughed Rue, nervously; “I wouldn’t mind be- 
ing buried in the sea.” 

She was sitting between her father and 
mother before the fire on the hearth, with her 
head on her father’s knee. Her mother said 
that she always was a baby, but this winter 
she had been a bigger baby than ever. 

“ I think,” said her father, slowly, “ that I 
shall have to take Paul ; a shaking up will do 
him good. I will teach him navigation, and 
perhaps I can make a sailor of him ; his father 
and grandfather and great-grandfather were 
sailors. He ought to be web-footed.” 

Rue raised her head, her face alight, and 
brought her hands together in a fashion of her 
own when she was specially delighted. “ Oh, 
father, will you? He is crazy to go.” 

“ I ’ll think of it,” he answered ; “ but I would 
rather have you than anybody excepting mother.’ , 

Rue dropped her head again. Mrs. Erskine 


EVENTIDE. 


165 


arose to fill the teakettle for supper. Her father 
began to sing, 

“ Must I be carried to the skies 1 ” 

“ Oh that walk in the snow ! ” thought Rue, 
sighing ; “ the difference it has made to me — and 
to Paul.” 

Once again she thought of it, and the differ- 
ence that it made to Paul. 

The next time that Captain Erskine found him- 
self alone with Paul, — they were in the wood- 
shed, Paul with an axe in his hand, and his 
father standing near the doorway with an arm- 
ful of wood, — he said, as suddenly as if the 
thought had but just occurred to him, “ Paul, 
do you want to go to sea with me ? I want to 
take an East India trip, to Liverpool and to Cal- 
cutta, back to Europe, and then to New York. 
Do you want to go ? ” 

“Yes, sir!” declared Paul, bringing the axe 
with energy down to the chopping-block. 

“ Then we ’ll go. I am going to New York 
to-morrow; my old owners have a ship for me.” 

Captain Erskine stepped over the sill into the 
snow, and went into the house. Paul stood as 
still as if he were stunned, and then burst into a 


166 


RUE'S HELPS. 


whistle. Rue’s face brightened over the whis- 
tle ; she wondered if Paul were thinking of the 
words that belonged to the music, — 

“ Oh, do not be discouraged, for Jesus is your friend.” 

Captain Erskine went to New York the next 
day, and instead of his return at night Paul 
brought a letter from the mail stating that he 
had taken charge of the Queen of the Sea, and 
that she was to be loaded immediately for Liv- 
erpool ; he would come home only to say good- 
by ; Paul must be ready in three weeks. 

“ You can’t sew, Rue,” was her mother’s first 
comment over the letter; “Paul must get his 
things ready-made.” 

“ I am glad that I have such piles of stockings 
for them both,” said Auntie. 

“ Oh, how lonely we shall be ! ” said Rue. 
“We have lived without father, but we never 
tried to live without Paul.” 

The farm had been put out “ on shares,” and 
a boy hired to take care of the garden, one horse, 
and one cow. Arrangements for the sale of the 
other cattle and horses had been already made. 

“ It will seem queer not to be farmers,” Rue 
said. 


EVENTIDE. 


167 


“ It will seem queerer to be sailors,” said Paul. 

Grace was written to, and given the choice of 
coming home, or meeting her father and brother 
in New York on board the ship. She chose the 
latter, and it was planned that Mrs. Erskine 
also should spend the last week on board of the 
ship. 

Rue was to stay with Auntie and Paul. 

The last day for Paul at home came slowly to 
the boy. Rue had felt as if she must catch the 
hours and hold them back. Paul was to go by 
stage in the morning ; his trunk was packed and 
standing in the hall, all the last things were 
in, there was nothing more to be done or said. 

“ Rue, I ’ll run across lots through the woods 
and see Will Adams,” he said, after hanging 
around her for half an hour. 

“ Well, he was here last night, but I suppose 
he wants to see you again.” 

“ You don’t care if I go ; you won’t think it 
mean nor nothing,” he said, lingering. 

“ Why, no, certainly not ; we shall have a 
long evening together.” 

He lingered still, brushed up the hearth, put 
some chips on the fire, filled the wood-box in 


168 


RUE'S HELPS. 


the kitchen, and brought in a hod of coal for 
the kitchen fire. 

“ I wish I had n’t forgotten that wood-box so 
often,” he muttered. “ Say, Rue,” he called, 
“you think I’m not such a bad fellow, don’t 
you?” 

“ Not such a bad fellow,” she said lightly ; 
“ you are a good enough brother for me.” 

“Paul, you’ll be a better one if you bring a 
stick of wood, and put it under one of these 
front rockers,” said Auntie. “ I want to lean 
back.” 

Auntie was sitting in the large cane-seated 
rocker, near the western window, with her feet 
on the chintz-covered footstool. Paul brought 
two sticks of wood, and arranged the chair to 
her entire satisfaction. 

“Thank you,” she said; “everybody is very 
good to me.” 

Rue sat in the window, her sewing in her 
lap, a book open in her hand. Very slight and 
girlish she appeared in her long braids, and red 
and white and blue plaid dress. It was one of 
her school dresses, and she had made it over for 
economy’s sake. Her father liked it because 


EVENTIDE. 169 

it reminded him of the little girl she used 
to be. 

Paul liked it without knowing why. Looking 
at her now, as he stood buttoning his overcoat, 
he thought, “She isn’t strong; I must always 
take care of her.” And the last time in his life 
that he dreamed of her, she wore two long 
braids and that plaid dress. 

“I won’t be gone long,” he said, running out. 

“Auntie, shall I read to you?” asked Rue. 
“ I am wrapped up in this book.” 

“ I see it in your hand often enough. Is it 
Karnes ? ” 

“Yes, ‘Elements of Criticism.’ I’m reading 
4 Standard of Taste,’ and I ’ll read just where I 
am. It is all marked through with dates. Will 
you like it?” 

“ I have taught that book to class after class. 
How I would love to live my life over again and 
give it up to teaching ! I believe that I would 
love to live another life on the earth, living 
God’s will and teaching it. Oh, Rue, pray faith, 
think faith, but, above all, do faith.” 

Rue closed the book, forgetting to read, for 
the sunset was coming. Auntie dropped her 


170 


RUE'S HELPS. 


knitting-work, after haying knit into the middle 
of her needle, and with Rue watched the sunset 
silently. It was a golden sunset; “Auntie’s 
sunsets,” Rue called the golden ones. 

The knocker on the front hall-door sounded. 

“ I did n’t see any one coming,” said Rue, ris- 
ing and placing the hook on her work-basket; 
“ perhaps we ’ll have company to tea, Auntie.” 

“ How bright the room is ! ” exclaimed Auntie. 
“ See, Rue, the room is flooded with light.” 

Rue paused, in crossing the room, to look 
toward the west. It was a new sunset, like 
every sunset, but the room did not appear 
bright to her. Again the knocker sounded, and 
she hurried out, not glancing again at Auntie. 

The knockers were Mr. Ireton and his sister. 

“ I am so glad,” cried Rue. “ I told Auntie 
that perhaps you were company coming to tea. 
Auntie has a talk laid up for you, Mr. Ireton. 
Why did n’t the children come ? ” 

Rue opened the parlor door, and while Mrs. 
Willever was taking off her wrappings by the 
parlor fire, Mr. Ireton went into the dining- 
room to speak to Auntie. 

In a moment, before Rue had laid away 


EVENTIDE. 17 ] 

Mrs. Willever’s wrappings, he stepped into 
the hall. 

“ Gertrude ! ” he called, sharp and quick. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Willever. 

“ I want you, not Rue.” 

But Rue followed, pale and startled. Auntie 
was sitting as she had left her, the sunset glow 
upon her face, with her eyes closed, her knit- 
ting upon her lap, and a lump of loaf sugar laid 
upon it. She always took the sugar from her 
pocket and laid it down before she ate it. 

“ How you startled me ! ” said Rue, with a 
shiver and a little laugh ; 44 she often falls asleep 
in her chair.” 

After a glance toward Rue that his sister 
understood, Mr. Ireton laid his fingers on 
Auntie’s wrist. 

“ Rue, child, Auntie has gone home,” he 
said. 

Mrs. Willever caught Rue in both arms. She 
did not utter a cry, she seemed not to breathe. 

“ Take her away,” said Mr. Ireton. 

It was quite dark when Rue opened her eyes. 
She was lying on the parlor sofa, Mrs. Willever 
was close beside her. A shaded lamp stood 


172 


RUE'S HELPS . 


burning on a table, the room was very quiet, 
the whole house was very quiet. 

“ Mrs. Willever,” said Rue. 

“ Well, darling.” 

“ I know all about it,” said Rue, catching her 
breath. 

“ And are you glad for Auntie, that God 
called her so sweetly, and that she went to him 
without one moment’s pain ? ” 

“ Yes, I ’m glad for Auntie. She said the 
room was full of light; I thought that she 
meant the sunset, at eventide, — is n’t that it ? 
Where ’s father? ” 

“He has been telegraphed to ; the doctor has 
been here. Auntie is lying in the back parlor.” 

“ Where ’s Paul?” 

“ He was in the yard when we came in ; he 
has been doing many things ; he was more 
troubled about you than about Auntie.” 

“ Where ’s Mr. Ireton ? Is he safe ? Is every- 
body safe ? ” 

“ Yes, dear, we are all in the safe places ; 
where is the safe place ? ” 

“ Close to Jesus,” said Rue, in a trembling 


voice. 


EVENTIDE. 


1T3 


“ They will all be here before midnight, we 
think. I want you to drink a cup of tea, will 
you? ” 

“ Yes, but don’t you go to get it ! Is any- 
body here ? ” 

“ Mrs. Oliver is here, and Miss Waters.” 

“ I want to see Mr. Ireton. I want him to 
come and pray.” 

In an instant he was beside her. Mrs. Will- 
ever arose, and he seated himself in her chair. 
With Rue’s cold fingers clasping his, he spoke to 
God for her and for them all, giving thanks for 
Auntie. Rue’s tears dropped slowly, then, com- 
ing faster and faster, she burst into loud sob- 
bing. Mrs. Willever took her into her arms, 
not seeking to comfort her ; her own tears were 
her own best comforter. 

The children at the Parsonage were alone 
with the servant, Mr. Ireton remembered later 
in the evening, and he must go to them. 

“ Must you go ? ” asked Rue, raising herself. 
“ I know I am selfish, I do like to have you 
stay; there isn’t any one in the world that 
keeps me thinking about Christ as you do.” 

Mr. Ireton said to his sister the next day, 


174 


RUE'S HELPS. 


when she alluded to Rue, “ If all my parish 
could feel like that, I would be the happiest 
man in the world.” 

Rue did not yet half know the blessedness 
of being kept in mind of Christ by a human 
presence. 


V. 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 

“Thou hast made us for thyself, and our 
heart is restless till it rests in thee,” quoted Mr. 
Ire ton at Auntie’s funeral. The thought filled 
Rue’s heart full, — full and brimming over. 
“ Thou hast made' me for thyself,” she repeated 
again and again. 

In closing, Mr. Ireton moved to the coffin, 
and after standing one silent moment gazing 
down into the peaceful old face, down on the 
glory-crowned old head, he spoke. “ These 
dear dead lips have left a message for us all,” 
he said ; “ she said not long since to a friend, 
‘ When you look into my dead face remember 
that I am saying this to you, Study the words 
of Jesus.’ As you pass around to look at her, 
every one of you, look at the closed lips that 
are speaking yet, listen : ‘ Study the words of 
Jesus.’ ” 

In hushed groups they stood around Auntie, 
looking and listening. 


4 


176 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Rue opened her Bible that night to study 
afresh some of the words of Jesus. Then, 
closing the book, she leaned her head upon it 
and wept, wondering why her heart did not 
utterly break for Auntie, for who in all her life 
would ever be such a helper? 

Captain Erskine grew blind with tears at 
family prayers that night, Mrs. Erskine wiped 
her eyes, Paul and Grace looked very grave, 
Rue could not lift her head. 

In the morning below the sadness was an 
undercurrent of busy life. Paul and his father 
took the train by the mail stage ; there was 
breakfast by lamplight, some hurried packing, 
many directions and last words that meant noth- 
ing and yet filled the pauses and kept eyes dry 
and voices steady. Rue called Paul back to 
tell him that his necktie was awry and to kiss 
him again. 

“ Have red cheeks when I come back,” he 
said ; “ and, Grace, don’t you go and get mar- 
ried, and leave mother and Rue.” 

Captain Erskine’s lips quivered, his voice 
choked ; not speaking one word of 4 good-by,’ 
he stepped into the stage and would not look 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. YJ'J 

back. Paul was anxious about the position of 
his trunk, and forgot to look back. 

“ Don’t look them out of sight ! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Erskine, superstitiously ; “and, Rue, come 
right in. You have n’t even a shawl over your 
head!” 

The fire on the hearth had been forgotten ; 
the few embers were scattered ; a newspaper, a 
ball of twine, a torn sheet of brown wrapping- 
paper, an old paper box, her father’s worn 
shoes, and Paul’s cap were scattered upon the 
carpet. Paul’s empty cup and her father’s full 
plate of untasted breakfast upon the table, the 
vacant place at the table at the left of her 
father, one of Auntie’s aprons upon the lounge, 
the Bible upon the chair where her father had 
laid it, rent Rue’s heart with the memory of 
the home that had been, that never could be 
again. In her haste she had called it Marah, — 
but oh ! for Marah to come back ! She would 
be so good, so faithful, so patient, so helpful, 
towards them all. 

“ Grace, you forgot to put on the dish-water,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Erskine. “ I ’ll clean the kitchen 
closet to-day and do a little washing. That 


12 


178 


RUE'S HELPS. 


always takes up my mind. Rue, you sit down, 
and don’t do a thing. I hope they won’t miss 
the train.” 

Rue was picking up Paul’s cap. “ What 
shall I do to take up my mind?” she was 
thinking. “ Thou hast made me for thyself ; 
oh, use me for thyself ! ” She could kindle the 
fire on the hearth ; the boy had brought in a 
basket of cobs, and she could rub off the corn ; 
that would take but a few moments, and there 
were days and days and days ahead, there was 
all her life ahead. 

“ Thou hast made me for thyself ; oh, use 
me ! ” was her prayer all that day and for many 
days. She had set herself, rather God had set 
her, a long lesson to learn, that he might answer 
this prayer. She must learn what God was if 
she would serve him ; she must learn what he 

t 

loved, that she might love it; she must learn 
what he hated, that she might hate it ; she must 
learn the kind of work that he works, if she 
would serve him ; and she must learn about her- 
self, that she might use herself. In all the days 
and days and days ahead there was enough for 
her to do. And to do it, she had but to follow. 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 179 

That afternoon, as she lay listless upon the 
lounge dreading four o’clock, because it would 
remind her of Paul coming from school, and 
dreading sunset for fear that she would think 
she heard Auntie’s step upon the stair and her 
hand upon the latch, dreading the lonely tea- 
time, dreading the lonely bedtime, dreading the 
awaking in the morning to find Auntie gone, 
and Paul and her father gone, her mother 
came in from the kitchen and stood looking 
down at her. 

“ Rue, you need a change. Grace has been 
away and come home as fresh as a lark, and I 
have been away ; can’t you think of some place 
that you want to go to ? ” 

“Yes, ’m,” said Rue, smiling ; “ I want to go 
to heaven.” 

“ No, you don’t, — not till your time comes.” 

“ Think of some easier place to go to,” said 
Grace, coming in behind her mother. “ Mother 
and I want to send you off somewhere.” 

“ May I go anywhere I like ? ” asked Rue, 
eagerly. 

“ If it does n’t cost too much, and is n’t too 
far away, and there ’s somebody there to take 
care of you.” 


180 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Well, I ’ll think,” said Rue, closing her eyes. 

Mrs. Erskine returned to her work, and Grace 
went up stairs, leaving Rue alone to think. 

She thought of all the places that she had 
ever visited, but in all of them she felt home- 
sick ; she could not think of any place to rest in. 
She wanted to stay at home with her father and 
Paul and Auntie. Oh that she had never called 
it Marah ! Could she ever be happy again after 
having been so wicked ? With her eyes closed, 
her thoughts ran on. Would she like to sail up 
a river? Would she like to travel all night in 
the cars? Would she like to ride in a carriage 
on and on till she came into a green country ? 
Would she like to be among many people? 
Would she like to be in a school-room, and hear 
the children read in the primer, and the first 
reader, and teach fractions, — could she teach 
fractions? Had she forgotten how to find 
the least common denominator? And about 
grammar ? And she wanted a class in algebra 
and — 

“ Rue, Rue,” whispered Grace, “ I didn’t 
know you were asleep, and I brought Mr. Ireton 
in here.” 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 181 

“ Don’t let me disturb you,” said Mr. Ireton’s 
voice. 

Rue opened her eyes with such a bewil- 
dered, helpless stare that Grace and Mr. Ire- 
ton laughed. 

She arose to shake hands with him, ashamed 
of her sleepy eyes and tumbled hair. 

“ Perhaps you are too sleepy to go with me. 
Gertrude sent me to bring you to the Parsonage. 
She sent her regards to your mother, and desires 
to borrow you for a year or two. I have a call 
to make ; if I return in two hours, will you go 
home with me ? ” 

“ Most certainly she will,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Erskine’s voice from the kitchen doorway. “ I ’ve 
been thinking all day whatever was I to do with 
her.” 

“ Then I came in the right time,” he replied. 
“ I like to feel that I am sent Miss Rue, will 
you go home with me and stay till I bring you 
home ? ” 

“ I would like it very much,” said Rue. “I 
don’t know anything that I would like so well.” 

“ Then it is arranged. I ’ll be back as soon 
as I can. Lou is out in the carriage, in what she 


182 


RUE'S HELPS. 


terms ‘ an agony of suspense,’ awaiting your 
decision.” 

“ I thank you all very much,” said Rue, grate- 
fully, as he turned away. 

Rue liked her happy surprises to come in her 
restless time. How lonely she would have been 
to awake as the sun was going down, to find 
them gone, and Grace and her mother talking 
about household affairs or village news, or plan- 
ning the spring cleaning or a visit in the vil- 
lage. Not that she was not interested in all these 
things, but they wearied her just now. She had 
been almost to the golden gates with Auntie, 
and had come back not quite ready to take up 
life’s small interests, to bear life’s small burdens. 
After the hush that had fallen upon her spirit, 
every-day voices jarred. And then she felt that 
Grace and her mother did not love Auntie, and 
were not missing her. The voices and words at 
the Parsonage would be in unison with every 
thought. She believed that she could come 
down from heaven and live at the Parsonage 
without being disturbed. 

She found tea waiting for them, a chair for 
her having been placed between the children. 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 183 

The welcome was so sweet that she almost cried 
over it. 

Mrs. Willever, as usual, was robed in some 
dark fabric, with a bright ribbon at her throat, 
and the little girls were in gay dresses. No one 
at the Parsonage mourned in black raiment 
because Jesus had called a little child unto 
him. 

“ Are you happy, Rue ? ” asked Lou, after 
tea. Rue was in a cushioned chair, with both 
the children on the carpet at her feet, with their 
heads close together in her lap. 

“ I am rested , and that is better, is n’t it ? ” 
asked Rue. 

“ What were you tired for ? ” asked Persis. 

“She was tired that she might be rested,” 
said their father. “ Don’t trouble her, children, 
and don’t beg for one story, but wait till one 
comes of itself.” 

“ Will that be to-night ? ” sighed Persis, comi- 
cally. 

“ Yes, to-night,” laughed Rue. “ I’ll tell you 
about all the things that happened to me when I 
was a little girl. I was a very wonderful little 
girl, and a great many wonderful things hap- 


184 


RUE'S HELPS. 


pened to me. Shall I tell you my adven- 
tures when I crossed the sea at five years 
old ? ” 

“ Oh, goody, goody, goody ! ” cried Persis, 
clapping her hands. But Lou was more digni- 
fied, and said, “ If you please.” 

The minister went into his study and lighted 
his lamp. “ Beside communion with God,” he 
said to himself, “ I know of nothing so restful as 
the companionship of little children.” 

Rue found a fire in her chamber and an easy- 
chair drawn up before it. She dropped into the 
chair, curling her feet up, and covered her face 
with both hands. All she could say in her 
prayer was : “ Oh, our Father, I am so glad and 
so thankful, and thou art so good to me ! ” 

Little feet were at the door, and impatient 
fingers were turning the knob. “ May I come 
in, please?” and Lou ran in, in her night-dress, 
to spring into Rue’s arms and ask if she might 
sleep with her. 

“ Aunt Gertrude said you might send me 
away if you wanted to,” she said, clinging with 
both arms to Rue’s neck. 

“ So I will, if I want to,” said Rue, making a 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


185 


place for her in her arms. For a while neither 
spoke. Lon was a thoughtful child. It was 
happiness enough for her to sit with her head 
on Rue’s bosom, to stroke her cheek, and to feel 
her arms about her. 

“ If I don’t stay little you can’t always hold 
me,” she said; “papa holds me.” 

Over the mantel hung a large photograph of 
Lou’s mother. There was one, taken at the 
same time, hanging over the writing-table in 
the study. The face was like Lou’s, oval, brown, 
with brown eyes and waving light hair. 

“ She likes to have you hold me and love 
me,” said Lou, watching Rue’s face as she 
looked at the picture ; “ she is glad that you 
didn’t go to heaven when she did, for then 
you wouldn’t be down here to hold me.” 

“ And some day I ’ll tell her that I loved her 
little girls,” answered Rue. “Oh, Lou, if you 
and Persis were not in the world, I wouldn’t 
have so much to live for.” 

Mrs. Willever came in for a word of good- 
night, and Persis ran in to say “ how lovely 
and comfortable ” Rue looked in her breakfast 
sacque, with her hair unbraided. 


186 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Good night, sleep well ! ” the minister had 
said. 

Rue did love to be petted. She lay awake, 
with Lou breathing softly beside her, long after 
the house was asleep. God was using her for 
himself. He was making her lovely and lova- 
ble, using her to love and to be loved, and 
' is not that the best use to which he puts 
himself? 

Mrs. Willever never “ entertained ” her 
guests ; she was interested in them and lived 
in their lives. No one ever left the Parsonage, 
after one day there, without being strengthened 
and refreshed, more ready for work, or more 
ready for God’s idleness, which is the hardest 
of all work. Renewed strength came to Rue 
before many days. She forgot the old habit of 
lying down in the afternoon ; it was very pleas- 
ant not to “ hate afternoons,” as she used to say 
she did, and utterly to forget that about four 
o’clock was a weary time, for at that hour the 
children came home from school, and before 
dark Mr. Ire ton came out from the study, or 
came in from making calls, with a thought that 
helped her or an experience that interested her ; 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 187 

and between two and six there was always 
a call from some of the village people. Mrs. 
Willever lived in everybody’s life, and before 
Rue was aware, she began to feel at home in 
many of the village homes. 

Every Tuesday afternoon the Female Prayer- 
meeting was held at the Parsonage. The Parson- 
age was central, Mrs. Willever was always at 
home, and as prayer was wont to be made there, it 
seemed a most fitting place. Out of shyness Rue 
had never attended these prayer-meetings ; she 
was sure that she should sink through -the floor if 
she should be asked to speak or pray. “ Dear 
child, no one will ask you,” said Mrs. Willever, 
and she was persuaded to go in. The subject 
of prayer, the first Tuesday of Rue’s stay at the 
Parsonage, was “ The Homes of our Village.” 
Mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, pleaded for 
the happiness and the good of their homes and 
all the other homes in little Geneva. Several 
of the mothers arose and talked (they only 
talked , they did not know how to speak) about 
the kinds and degrees of trial in their home. 
Rue remembered Marah, the place of healed 
waters. How Auntie would love to say some- 


188 


RUE'S HELPS. 


thing now! Oh, if she were only brave, and 
could talk like Auntie ! But must she talk like 
Auntie? Couldn’t she talk like herself? But 
she was so young, almost the youngest except- 
ing the children, and it would seem presuming ; 
but could n’t she say it for Auntie ? Her face 
flushed, her throat grew dry ; no, she could n’t, 
she never could, not even to please Auntie, not 
even to please — But would He care, did He 
care if she spoke or remained silent ? 

She looked down at the red, green, and yel- 
low squares in the carpet ; she looked up at the 
ceiling ; she looked across the room at a bracket ; 
she looked at Lou’s ferns and autumn leaves 
under the mirror ; she looked at the picture of 
the signing of tile Declaration of Independence ; 
she looked at Mrs. Willever, quietly listening as 
Mrs. Eager ran on volubly about the influence 
of mothers, — up and down and around. Noth- 
ing helped her decide ; would she be sorry after- 
ward, when they were gone? How could any 
one expect anything of her? Must she help 
answer her own prayer about being “ used ” ? 
In school, when visitors came in, she had been 
accustomed to talk easily as she conducted the 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


189 


exercises ; she did not mind reading aloud in 
Sewing Society ; she could talk to her boys by 
the hour : but she choked and trembled at the 
very thought of the sound of her own voice in 
this full, silent room, and there was no one to 
help her decide ; Mrs. Willever would not even 
glance at her. Would Mr. Ireton think she 
ought ? 

“ Miss Rue,” — Mrs. Eager had subsided and 
old Mrs. Miller was addressing her ; Rue trem- 
bled and dropped her eyes, — “ you know about 
children and so on, and must have had experi- 
ences and so on in teaching ; can’t you help us a 
little in this matter of home trials, and so on ? ” 

Rue laughed. It was not just the thing to 
do, but laughing eased her like nothing else ; 
perhaps she could say something, and so on ! 
She would try to think that she was telling 
a story to Lou and Persis. 

“ I will tell you some of the things that 
Auntie used to say to me when I was troubled 
and restless and in a hurry to straighten out 
crooked things,” she began in a clear voice. 
Under the influence of Rue’s laugh, several of 
the ladies had settled themselves into easier 


190 


RUE'S HELPS . 


positions ; one serious face had softened into 
sympathetic lines ; one heart weighed down with 
responsibility had unconsciously taken the cheer 
of it to herself; another felt anew that this 
meeting was not such a dreadful place, that one 
might smile or even laugh while bringing their 
hopes* and fears to God. Auntie used to say 
that Rue’s laugh cheered her like a cordial. 

Rue arose, — she could talk more easily stand- 
ing, — and rested her hand upon Lou’s shoulder. 
Her heart was full of Auntie. Thought after 
thought of hers flashed upon her, and she 
found herself talking to these home-helpers 
with all Auntie’s warmth and force. 

“ I like that,” began Mrs. Miller, as Rue re- 
seated herself. % I like ever so much that 
thought about Marah. It ’s funny that I never 
thought about it before, for I do read the Scrip- 
tures regular. I suspect that there ’s a little bit 
of bitter water in all our homes, that it would 
be better to pray over, and so on, than to fuss 
over, and so make it bitterer. It ’s a great deal 
easier to fuss and find fault than it is to pray. 
Suppose, instead of scolding the children about 
their little faults, we try to help them to over- 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


191 


come them, and so on ; I should n’t wonder if 
we ’d find some of the bitter water in ourselves.” 

After singing and prayer a middle-aged lady 
loosened her bonnet-strings, unpinned her shawl, 
and while pulling at the tips of her gloves, be- 
gan to talk. “ That idea about changing the bit- 
ter water into sweet strikes me very sweetly. 
Bitter water must be in the world as long as 
our hearts have any bitterness in them ; and if 
our hearts are changed there ’ll be so much the 
less to flow out. I often think that it is the 
mother’s word that influences the whole day. I 
know that when my head aches the children 
never have such a good time, and I ’m not always 
as patient as I might be. If we mothers will 
think first about the bitter ^water in our own 
hearts, and pray to have it changed, then we will 
be ready to be sweet and kind and sympathetic 
with the children. And if sweetness and kind- 
ness and sympathy don’t change quarrels and 
sour looks and disobedience, I ’m sure I don’t 
know what will. I, for one, am willing to try it. 
The older sisters are the ones to think of it, 
too,” she added, glancing at Julia Nevers, the 
eldest of seven. 


192 


RUE’S HELPS. 


“ I have been thinking of it,” said Miss 
Nevers, smiling at Rue. “ I thought of it while 
Rue was talking. Elder sisters often stir up the 
bitter waters, instead of throwing in something 
to heal them. Sometimes we throw in bitter 
drops to make it bitterer.” 

Another hymn was sung, another prayer 
offered after a pause during which Miss Rawley 
looked at Mrs. Hatch and Mrs. Hatch at Miss 
Rawley. Mrs. Hatch spoke in an even, pleasant 
tone, as if she were talking at her own tea- 
table. “ I am not quite ready to give up that 
thought about Marah yet. I have no children, 
but I have learned that there may be bitter 
water where husband and wife are. There is n’t 
any drop so bitter as forgetfulness. I cried 
once because my husband forgot that it was the 
anniversary of our wedding-day, and he looked 
pretty blue all one day, and told me at night 
that it was his birthday, and I had not spoken of 
it. I used to have a great many blue times in 
my early married life over such little things ; if 
my husband went to town and forgot to call out 
‘ Good-by,’ or if he did n’t look pleased when I 
put on a new dress, or if he said ‘ Nonsense ’ 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 193 

when I told him of any new plan, I was sure 
that he was neglecting me, and tried to show 
it by being indifferent to him. Forgetfulness, 
neglect, indifference about the least little thing, 
are very bitter drops, and must be swallowed 
with tears. And if the water is bitter, how one 
little drop of attention or love, one kind word, 
one little thoughtful action, will heal it! And 
the power to heal is in our hands ; all we ’ve 
got to do is to drop' it in.” 

“ I ’ve been thinking,” said Miss Rawley, 
“ that discontent is the bitterest water I know 
anything about. It ’s a great deal easier to be 
discontented than to be contented. We drink 
of discontent every day of our lives. Some are 
discontented with one thing and some with an- 
other. We make our own Marahs. We are 
discontented with ourselves, our homes, our nar- 
row sphere, because we can’t dress better, and 
because people do not treat us better, and be- 
cause we can’t do more good in the world ; and 
when we are discontented it is a finding fault 
with God. We are murmuring against him. 
I wonder why I never saw that before ; the next 
time I say ‘ I wish,’ I ’ll stop to think. This 
13 


194 


RUE'S HELPS. 


bitter water we can heal for ourselves and for 
others by thinking of all the things that we have 
to be thankful for. Instead of saying 4 1 wish,’ 
let us try to say 4 1 am thankful.’ ” 

44 Suppose we say a word about neighbors,” 
spoke up a lively voice, and all looked towards 
little Mrs. Johns, the doctor’s wife. 44 Up the 
country where my husband frequently goes, 
is a neighborhood consisting of nine farm- 
houses, that is called Harmony. Is n’t that 
delightful ? No bitter water about Harmony. 
What bitter water gossip is ! Of course we 
all like to hear the news about each other. I 
like to know how somebody’s cold is, and if 
somebody’s hired girl works well, and if some- 
body else can afford a new cloak this winter, 
and if two others I know are really engaged, or 
one is playing with the other. I try to like to 
know, as the angels like to know about us, so 
that I can rejoice in their blessings ; and if, 
when we discussed our neighbors’ affairs, we 
could do it as one angel may tell another that 
the ladies of Geneva have had a good prayer- 
meeting this afternoon, there wouldn’t be one 
drop of bitter water in all the gossip that Ge- 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


195 


neva can hold. But if somebody is unkind, or 
bears false witness, or tries to be meddlesome, 
what bitter water that is ! As neighbors let us 
heal all the bitter water that we find flowing 
through the village; if it should run as far as 
our house, let us heal it before we send it on. 
Let us never hold a cup of bitter water to a 
neighbor’s lips; especially let us be tender- 
hearted to the little ones who belong to Christ; 
let us help them when they fall, instead of cry- 
ing out against them. If somebody’s son goes 
astray, let us never speak of it any more than if 
he were our own dear boy ; let us pray for him 
as if he were ours. Let us never spread a report 
about somebody’s husband, but think ‘but for 
the grace of God, my husband will do the same 
thing.’ Let us be kind to our children’s little 
friends; let us make our homes pleasant for 
other people’s children. If we all help at home 
and outside of home to heal the bitter water, 
there will not be a drop of it to drink in all 
Geneva.” 

Rue’s eyes were .full, thinking of Auntie. 
Mrs. Willever closed with prayer, and then all 
the ladies fell into groups, shaking hands and 


196 


RUE'S HELPS. 


talking. How Rue wished that Auntie knew 
about the good time that she had helped to make ! 

“ Rue,” said Miss Rawley, “ you must always 
come to our meetings, and be sure to bring a 
thought along.” 

“ I will,” promised Rue. “ I quite long to 
give you Auntie’s thoughts about the back side 
of the desert.” 

When the bell rang for tea, Rue was sur- 
prised to see Mr. Ireton enter the sitting-room 
accompanied by her sister Grace. 

“ Why, Grace,” she exclaimed, springing for- 
ward to meet her, “ how long have you been 
here ? ” 

“An hour or more,” said Grace. “ Mr. Ireton 
would n’t let me go before tea. I came to see 
him.” 

“Is mother well? Is anything the matter 
with anybody?” cried Rue, almost in terror. 

“ No, Goosey ; why should there be ? ” 

Grace’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes 
red with weeping. Rue trembled and leaned 
against a chair, her eyes dilated and her lips 
white. 

Grace seated herself at the table, and began 


EVER SO MANY THINGS . 197 

talking rapidly to Persis about her new dress. 
Rue’s eyes were fixed upon her sister, her lips 
could not frame another question ; but could 
Grace laugh and talk if her eyes were red 
about her father or Paul ? 

“ Rue,” said Mr. Ireton, “ come here and see 
what a good fire there is in the hall stove. 
Didn’t I tell you that I was a fire-maker?” 

Rue obeyed, still trembling. 

“ Grace came to talk to me about joining the 
church,” he said in a low tone. “ Oh, child, 
haven’t you faith enough not to be afraid?” 

“ I did n’t mean to act so,” said Rue, “ but she 
never cries, and I saw that she had been crying. 
What a sister I have been not to have known 
it!” 

“ What a sister she has been perhaps I ” re- 
turned Mr. Ireton. 

“ May I speak to her about it, do you 
think ? ” asked Rue. 

“ I told her that I would tell you.” 

Rue was ashamed of herself that she found it 
so hard to speak of it to Grace when she kissed 
her “ good-by.” 

«I’m very glad,” was all she could say in 


198 


RUE'S HELPS. 


a husky whisper, “ and now we ’ll help each 
other.” , 

Rue wondered if Grace would tell their 
mother. Their mother had never prepared the 
way for any confidence. Rue was not sure that 
she cared whether her girls were Christians or 
not ; but their father had no greater joy than to 
know that his children walked in the truth. 

Before the end of the week Rue had walked 
to evening service in the church; she knelt 
with no words on her lips, her heart was too 
full for anything save unspoken thanks. 

“ I want something to do,” she said one day ; 
“ won’t you let me sew for the children ? ” 

, “ Must you ? ” asked Mrs. Willever. “ There 
are dresses and sheets and aprons and shirts 
all ready for somebody’s fingers; but I would 
rather see you study or write.” 

“ I want to do something for Lou and Per- 
sis,” said Rue, quickly. “ I love to be myself 
in a new place. I love to be myself always, but 
I like to be my old self in a new self.” 

The minister was a poor man, that is, people 
called him a poor man ; his salary was barely 
sufficient to supply the wants of the Parsonage, 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 1Q9 

but Lou and Persis believed their father to be 
rich. \ 

“All things are ours,” he often said ; “ all we 
have to do is to take.” 

He said it to Rue one day when she was 
wishing for books, and travel, and an abun- 
dance to give away ; and ever after it was one 
of her helps : “ All we have to do is to take.” 

“We can’t take what God is n’t willing to 
give,” she replied. 

“ Do you want to ? ” he asked, laughing. 

One afternoon she was sitting alone in the 
sitting-room in a camp-chair near a window 
sewing, not the little girl that Paul remembered, 
but a studious, thoughtful little woman, with 
her hair coiled instead of the long braids, 
and wearing a brown dress and linen sewing- 
apron. She was sewing for Lou, making the 
waist of a pink and white calico dress, and 
thinking of something that Mr. Ireton had said 
in church Sunday morning. She had felt a lit- 
tle afraid of him since, not quite like touching 
his hand when she bade him the usual “good 
night.” 

“ I have been thinking of the promise of 


200 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Christ that he would come in unto us and make 
his abode with us ; he says, 4 1 will love him,’ 
‘and my Father will love him.’ They will not 
only come, but they will stay with us in our 
homes, nearer to me than I am to you, nearer 
than when you touch my hand, nearer than 
the beating of your own heart. I fell asleep 
last night feeling Christ so near to me — God in 
Christ so near to me — that when I awoke this 
morning, I could hardly forbear saying ‘ Good 
morning, my Father ; good morning, my Sav- 
iour.’ ” 

Rue was startled, awed ; she was almost 
afraid. 

Christ’s presence in the Parsonage was no re- 
straint to any of them. It was not a restraint 
to Rue, but at first it kept her quiet. She could 
not feel sure that he was pleased when she 
laughed, and talked, and told the children sto- 
ries that were not very wise. And was he 
pleased that she chose to make a ruffle on the 
skirt of Persis’s dress instead of tucking it ? 
Was he pleased that she did not read the Bible 
all the time, and often, instead, chose Tennyson, 
or history, or biography, or travels ? 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 201 

“ Miss Rue,” said the minister’s voice behind 
her chair, “ are you getting homesick ? ” 

“ Oh no, sir, did I look so ? I was thinking, 
I can’t quite understand — ” 

He drew a chair nearer, seated himself, and, 
taking up a magazine, began to cut the leaves 
with his penknife. “ Can I help you under- 
stand ? Perhaps I have been through it. I am 
nearer the wayside inn than you, and if you had 
no one to help you my heart would ache think- 
ing of your road.” 

Rue looked troubled. She did not quite 
know how to explain. “ I ’m afraid that Christ 
is n’t pleased with me, with my thoughts, and 
my lightness, and the books I like to read, and 
the things I like to talk about.” 

“ Just as I am not pleased with Persis that 
she is n’t as wise as you ? ” 

“ Oh, is it like that ? ” dropping her work 
and looking up at him. 

“ Just like that,” he said. 

“ Then I won’t be afraid any more. I am a 
little afraid of you sometimes, so I can’t help 
being a little afraid when I think that he is as 
near as you are. But I ’ll think of you and Lou 


202 


RUE'S HELPS. 


and Persis; they are not afraid of saying or 
doing anything in your presence. You see all 
their naughtiness and all their goodness.” 

“ Is that all your trouble just now ? ” 

“Yes, and that is over.” 

“Shall I tell you a secret? Something 
‘ funny ’ Persis would call it, that I am invited 
to do this afternoon.” 

“ I would like to see you do something funny,” 
said Rue. 

“ I wish that I could take you and Gertrude 
this afternoon, but I am the only one invited. 
Do you know old Mr. Nixon? He lives over the 
bridge in Hanover township.” 

“ His wife died about a year ago, and he had 
had his golden wedding a while before. He is 
over eighty, and deaf, and — ” 

“ That ’s the man. I ’m going there to marry 
him this afternoon.” 

Rue’s mouth and eyes of sheer, incredulous 
astonishment, her quick laugh, her exclamations, 
brought such a prolonged laugh to the minister’s 
lips that Mrs. Willever, with her hands covered 
with flour, came in from the kitchen to enjoy it 
with him. 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 203 

Rue laughed till her eyes were full and run- 
ning over. 

“ Poor old man ! ” cried Mrs. Willever. “ I ’m 
glad that he ’ll have some one to take care of 
him. He missed his wife as a baby misses his 
mother.” 

“ But I must laugh ! ” cried Rue ; “ it ’s too 
funny. I never heard of anything so funny 
before. How old is the bride ? ” 

“ Not over seventy ; a hale old woman. She 
is a widow and lives next door. You know Mrs. 
Wynkoop ? ” 

“ No ; I never met her. It ’s funny enough 
for her, but it ’s too funny for him. Must you 
marry them ? ” 

“ Is n’t he one of my elders ? ” asked the min- 
ister, gravely. 

“ Must n’t I laugh ? I beg your pardon. But 
it does n’t seem like a real marriage ; it seems 
like a partnership for convenience. I suppose 
that she had to put her ear close to his mouth 
when she said ‘ yes.’ I wonder if he dreaded 
asking her. Oh, how can they love e^ch other ? ” 

“ He told me all about it ; he needs her care, 
and she needs a home. They both regard the 


204 


RUE'S HELPS. 


arrangement as a thought of God for their com- 
fort.” 

44 Oh dear ! ” sighed Rue, wiping her eyes ; 
“ and I ’ve been laughing ! ” 

“ One pretty thing about it,” continued Mr. 
Ireton, 44 she told me herself. She is poor, and 
has had to work for the neighbors for anything 
that she could get. She has a small amount 
saved, and expected to go to the Invalids’ Home 
at Hanover when she became feeble. Her only 
relative is a nephew, a simple fellow who cannot 
support himself. When she told him of the 
comfortable home that she is to have in her old 
age, with chickens and a cow and a pig and 
plenty of dry wood, he said : 4 Oh, Auntie, I 
knew you ’d be taken care of. I ’ve been ask- 
ing God eveiy day to give you a good home 
when you got old.’ ” 

And she had been laughing at his answered 
prayer. 

44 It is n’t wicked to laugh a little when the 
answer is very funny, is it?” she asked, steady- 
ing her voice. 44 Mrs. Johns would say 4 the 
angels would n’t laugh about it.’ ” 

44 You are not expected to be an angel,” said 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 205 

Mr. Ire ton, “ and human beings are constituted 
to laugh over funny things. ” 

Rue laughed again that afternoon when Mr. 
Ireton came home with an account of the mar- 
riage. As soon as the ceremony had been 
performed, the bridegroom had said, looking 
around the room, “ This is my home.” “ So 
it ’s mine ! ” her shrill old voice had piped up. 

“ I *m glad he ’s so old,” said Rue, thought- 
fully ; “ for now he can’t forget his first wife. 
I would n’t like to have any one love me so 
much that he would forget his first wife.” 

Rue was tying back Persis’s curls. She did 
not see the quick color that shot itself over the 
minister’s face, even to the edge of the iron-gray 
hair. His sister noted it, however, and felt 
irritated with Rue for her thoughtlessness. Rue 
was not a child; she was twenty-three years 
old. How could she be as unconscious as 
Persis ? 

“ Perhaps you don’t like the idea of a second 
marriage at all ? ” remarked Mr. Ireton, placing 
a chair for her at the tea-table. 

“ I think I do not;” then, glancing at Mrs. 
Will ever, she suddenly remembered that she 


206 


RUE'S HELPS ; 


might marry again some day. “But I have no 
right to think anything,” she added hastily. 
“If every one’s life is planned, what right have 
my little foolish notions to interfere ? ” 

“ Have n’t you a reason for all your notions ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Not for that ; it is only a feeling. Does n’t 
George Macdonald say that lie never dares laugh 
at any one for fear of making himself a fool ? ” 
“ I suppose that it is well to start with ideas,” 
said Mrs. Willever; “one half of my life I 
spent in learning, and the other half has gone 
in unlearning, and now I am ready to be taught. 
Oh, Rue, Rue, you seem so young and childish 
to me ! I was a widow at your age ; my hus- 
band died on my twenty-third birthday.” 

Rue shivered. She did feel young and child- 
ish beside such an experience as that. 

Lou fell asleep early that evening, and Rue 
sat alone in her chamber in her easy-chair near 
the fire. There were tears on her eyelashes, a 
quiver upon her lips ; she was too young and 
childish. How could she grow old and woman- 
ly? Must she read deeper books, must she 
think wiser thoughts, must she learn to take 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 207 

life hard, must she have experiences? Could she 
make experiences for herself ? Must she think 
of something beside home, care for something 
beside study, hope for something better than 
being used as God was willing to use her ?> Must 
she think more of knowledge than of holiness, — 
must she care more to learn about zoology, 
physiology, geology, and all the other things, 
than to study the words of Jesus? If there 
were something better and higher she could not 
attain to it ; it was high up, and she was low 
down. She could never reach it, stretch out 
her hands as she might. What better thing 
was there for any woman to be than a good 
daughter, a good sister, a good friend, a helper 
everywhere that she felt womanly help needed, 
and some day, it might be, somebody’s loving 
and good wife, and the mother of little chil- 
dren? Was there anything beside this and 
beyond this for her to think about, to pray 
about ? She could not be a mathematician like 
Mary Somerville ; she could not write poetry 
like Mrs. Browning or Jean Ingelow, or story- 
books like Miss Muloch or Mrs. Whitney or 
Mrs. Prentiss ; she could not be a wonderful 


208 


RUE'S HELPS. 


physician like Mary Putnam Jacobi ; she could 
not make discoveries in the heavens like Her- 
schel’s sister ; she could not found a school like 
Mary Lyon. Oh, how little and weak and 
young and useless and full of notions she felt ! 
She could n’t even marry a great man, and help 
him to be great, like Mozart’s wife ; she could n’t 
do anything or be anything but stay in little 
Geneva, and do the best she could. Perhaps 
God was not trying to make very much of her ; 
not to serve him much, but to please him per- 
fectly, was not that enough? She could not 
serve much, not as much as Martha, but might 
she not sit at his feet and learn ? Could she not 
break upon his head her alabaster box ? 

“ I ’ll try to read something wise,” she said, 
half sobbing ; “I want to be like Mrs. Will- 
ever.” Rising, she went to the hanging book- 
shelves, and came back to the fire with a book, 
bending forward in her chair that she might 
catch the light from the candle on the mantel. 

She read aloud: “It is said that Sir Isaac 
Newton, when he was drawing to a close the 
demonstration of the great truth that gravity is 
the cause which keeps the heavenly bodies in 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


209 


their orbits, was so much agitated with the mag- 
nitude and importance of the discovery that 
he was about to make, that he was unable to 
proceed, and desired a friend to finish what the 
intensity of his feelings would not allow him 
to do.” 

She closed the book and tried to repeat from 
memory: “It is said that Sir Isaac Newton, 
when he was bringing to a close — ” 

“May I come in?” asked Mrs. Willever, 
opening the door. 

“Oh, will you, and talk to me ? ” answered 
Rue, eagerly. 

“ I came to tell you something ; — no, I will 
not take your chair, I will sit here.” 

She sat down near the stove, opened the door, 
and put in a stick of wood. 

“ Sometimes, Rue, I think I shall do it ; to- 
night I think I shall. We were ready to go — 
Walter and I — when he was taken sick. We 
should have sailed the next week ; he died the 
very day that the steamer sailed. ‘I don’t 
want you to go without me,’ he said again and 
again, and at first I thought I could not ; but 
women do go alone, or with each other, and 
14 


210 


RUE'S HELPS. 


for three years I have been ready to go, willing 
to go, but for Theodore and his children. I 
know that Walter would be glad for me to go if 
Theodore can spare me. Have n’t you guessed 
it all this time, how I long to be a foreign mis- 
sionary? Don’t you know that I have studied 
for it for years ? I should have been in the field 
to-night had not these children lost their mother. 
Did you know how it broke my heart when you 
showed me the book-mark that the children in 
India gave your father with 4 Pray for us ’ in 
our language and in theirs worked upon it? 
Your father gave it to me, and I keep it in my 
Bible. I have two friends teaching in the 
schools, one is a physician, and their joyful 
letters break my heart and heal it. Theodore 
knows my heart’s desire and will not keep me 
back.” 

44 Oh, how can you go and leave the little 
girls ? ” cried Rue in distress. 44 1 know all you 
want to say, but I could n’t go, — not now. I 
used to think I could. Does Mr. Ireton think 
you ought to go ? ” 

44 Oh, Rue, would you hold me back, too ? ” 

44 No, no, indeed ! ” cried Rue, 44 but I don’t 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


211 


want you to go. Don’t you think that we need 
you in poor little Geneva ? ” 

u Geneva lias many workers ; there is no 
special field for me here. Lou will soon be old 
enough to take my place here at home, if my 
brother does not marry soon. He will not sorely 
need me very much longer, he himself confesses. 
Don’t you want me to do my work in the 
world, — the work for which I am fitted, the 
work to which I am called ? ” 

“ It is so sudden ; it falls on me like some- 
thing heavy. I am not wise and good. I 
should think that you would be so happy and 
find so much to do here in Geneva that you 
could n’t feel called to go.” 

“ Oh, child, you don’t understand. I am sent 
to a foreign work as truly as Theodore was sent 
to this home field ; it will break my heart to 
stay here, it will break my heart not to go. I 
shall not be needed here by and by, and I am 
needed among the little children whose fathers 
and mothers do not know about Jesus. My 
heart yearns over those little girls, not to these 
who have Christian homes.” 

Rue was silent. No, she could not be like 


212 


RUE'S HELPS. 


this brave, loving woman at her side. She had 
believed that she herself loved children, but it 
was not with a love like this. 

“ I shall go when Lou is fifteen, — she is 
nearly fourteen now, — or sooner if Theodore 
should marry.” 

“ Is he — does he — ” faltered Rue. “ I don’t 
like to think of him marrying again.” 

“ I did not intend to speak of it ; it came out 
unawares. But I know that he is thinking of 
some one; I know it by his prayers. God 
speed him, he has been a blessed brother 
to me ! ” 

Rue did not like it ; she did not like to think 
of it ; she was very selfish, — suppose that he 
could not talk so much to her. 

“ To-morrow will be his fortieth birthday,” 
said Mrs. Willever, after a pause. “ I do want 
to leave him with a wife, with a comforting, 
restful wife, for he takes life hard, harder than 
any one I ever knew, and needs double rest and 
comforting.” 

“ Forty is very old,” said Rue ; “ in seventeen 
years I shall be forty.” 

“Now good night, child,” said Mrs. Willever, 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 213 

rising ; “ shut up your big eyes, say your prayers, 
and go to sleep..” 

Rue did shut her eyes and say her praj^ers, 
but she could not go to sleep. She would be 
homesick in Geneva when Mrs. Willever was so 
far away, and Mr. Ireton had a wife to talk to 
and to help; and Lou and Persis would love 
the new mother and forget about her. She 
wanted her father ; she wished that she had gone 
with him. She would have been very strong by 
this time. Dear little Geneva would never be 
a home for her to nestle in again. She would 
always miss something. The sun setting over 
it would not give it the old sunshine. Would 
Mrs. Willever take her to Constantinople, or 
Burmah, or wherever she was going? She 
could love the heathen children, but they would 
never be like Lou and Persis. She tossed away 
the bed-clothing, and, rising, went to the win- 
dow; pushing the white curtain aside, she stood 
with her face close to the pane. It was clear 
starlight. The street was still. Opposite, the 
locust-trees stood, tall, black, straight. There 
were lights in every house, up the street and 
down the street; and little children to grow up 


214 


RUE'S HELPS. 


in every house, up the street and down the 
street. In almost every house in the village 
was a child that she knew ; there was not a 
mother in Geneva who did not know that she 
loved children, and every mother in Geneva 
knew that she loved her child. Nellie Taylor 
was sick, and she must go to-morrow to see her, 
to take her into her arms and tell her a story. 
Georgie Houston had cut his foot with an axe, 
and she must take him something to read, and 
find her old drawing cards for him to copy. 
She had promised her transparent slate to Lillie 
Johns, who was convalescent after scarlet fever; 
and Sadie Nevers had been expecting a day with 
her and her stereoscopic views, all winter. Some- 
body loved her and needed her in Geneva ; old 
Mrs. Brunei needed the underclothing that she 
had promised to make, and Miss Daniels had 
begged her to remember that she was blind, and 
to come to talk to her and read to her, every 
week. Mr. Ireton had called her his deaconess, 
and wished that all his young church-members 
were as forward in every good work. She had 
forgotten it until this moment. Was she too 
“young and childish” to begin to be like Try- 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


215 


phena and Tryphosa, that St. Paul spoke about? 
Couldn’t she be a deaconess in little Geneva to- 
day ; was n’t it as happy work as it was eigh- 
teen hundred years ago? Mrs. Willever had 
another call, but her heart was in Geneva. 

' Comforted about she knew not what, she crept 
back into bed, to fall asleep with her arm about 
Lou, with wet eyes, however, because she must 
lose Mrs. Willever. Lou and Persis would 
always have her, and — who could that wonder- 
ful woman be that the minister thought about 
and put into his prayers ? She would like to be 
somebody’s answered prayer, if only she could 
be good enough. Who was an answered prayer 
in the Bible ? Oh, it was Rebekah. He took 
her into his mother’s tent and loved her. And 
Rachel, — did Jacob pray all those many years 
about Rachel? But they were not perfect, even 
if they were answered prayers. Rebekah de- 
ceived her husband when he was old and blind, 
and Rachel — did Rachel ever make her hus- 
band unhappy? Yes, Rachel envied her sister, 
and Jacob’s anger was kindled against her, — 
against Rachel, for whom he had waited and 
served all those fourteen years. 


216 


RUE’S HELPS. 


Answered prayers did not bring perfect hu- 
man beings for wives or children. God could 
make her as good as Rachel and Rebekah, and 
better, and — and — she was almost asleep, with 
wet eyes — God could keep Lou and Persis lov- 
ing her. 

“ Rue, Rue,” — somebody was shaking her, and 
a light was in her eyes, — “ jump up as quick as 
you can ! ” Mrs. Willever, with a lamp in her 
hand, but partly dressed, with a heavy shawl 
around her, stood bending over her. “ Be quick 
and quiet, child ; the lower part of the house is 
on fire ! Lou, Lou, wake up ! ” 

“ What for ? ” asked Lou, sleepily. Rue was 
already on her feet, trembling from head to 
foot. 

Mrs. Willever hurried on Lou’s shoes and 
stockings, wrapped her in a waterproof,, and 
passed her along the hall to her father. 

“ Don’t tremble so, child ! ” she exclaimed, 
coming back to Rue ; “ your teeth chatter so 
that you can’t speak. Wrap up warm, there ’s 
no hurry. I ’ll get your things together, and 
Theodore will take you over to Mrs. Ray- 
mond’s.” 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


217 


Rue could not speak ; her fingers refused to 
fasten her clothing. The time had come for her 
to be a heroine and she was not a heroine at 
all. The halls were flooded with light ; cries 
of “ Fire,” the tramp of feet, shouts, and even 
laughter were filling the house. 

44 The dominie’s books ! ” 

44 Throw the looking-glasses out the window 
and bring the feather-beds down stairs ! ” 

44 The books ! the books ! ” 

44 Where are the children ? ” 

From Mrs. Willever’s arms she was passed 
into Mr. Ireton’s, down the crowded stairs, 
through the lighted hall, through the boys and 
men in front of the house, across the street, and 
into Mr. Raymond’s front door, where the chil- 
dren were huddled together, their arms around 
ea^i other. 

44 O Rue, Rue ! ” they cried, both springing 
into her arms. 

44 Will papa get burned up ? ” cried Persis. 

44 Where ’s Aunt Gertrude ? ” asked Lou. 

44 All safe, darlings,” said Rue through her 
chattering teeth, 44 we are all safe ; we must n’t 
stand here, papa won’t like it.” 


218 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ I want to see,” said Persis. “ Oh, what a 
noise they make ! ” 

Motherly Mrs. Raymond was behind them 
with shawls and cloaks, begging them not to 
stand in the doorway. Her “ menfolks ” were 
all at the fire, but they were watching their own 
roof, and the wind was the other way. 

“The other way is bad for somebody else,” 
said Rue, shivering. “ Children, come in and go 
up stairs with me.” 

“ I ’ll open the window for you,” assented the 
old lady ; “ suppose you all get sick, your fa- 
ther will have enough to think about without 
that.” 

“ Come, Persis,” said Lou obediently, taking 
her hand. Rue followed them up stairs into 
the lighted room, standing at the open window, 
with them both clinging to her. 

“ Why don’t Aunt Gertrude come ? ” asked 
Persis, half crying. 

“ She is helping papa ; he will take care of 
her,” reassured Rue, thinking how cowardly 
she was not to be with. her. But then they 
had hurried her away before she had had time 
to speak. 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 219 

“ I tope my new Atlas will be saved,” said 
Persis, “ and my new hat, and my croquet set.” 

“ I hope my Journal won’t get lost,” said Lou, 
“and 4 The Flower of the Family,’ and oh, all 
of papa’s books ! He said one day that he 
had n’t any treasures on earth but his books 
and us and mamma’s picture.” 

The flames were leaping high over the Par- 
sonage roof ; the street was as light as day, and 
noisier than Rue had ever known a street in 
Geneva to bfe. 

“I hope that mother and Grace won’t be 
frightened about me,” she said. 

Old Mrs. Raymond was trotting in and out of 
the room, sometimes in her excitement bringing 
something into the room and sometimes taking 
something out, talking now to the girls and now 
to the men below, who were bringing into the 
house the Parsonage furniture. 

“ I hope your aunt won’t take cold and get 
typhoid fever. I knew a woman who stayed to 
a fire, and she died the next week.” 

“ Oh, dear,” said Persis, beginning to cry, 
“ won’t somebody go and get Aunt Gertrude ? 
Do, somebody, go and get Aunt Gertrude.” • 


220 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Rue kissed her and whispered. Lou said 
aloud, “ Aunt Gertrude is with papa, dear ; she 
can’t get sick.” 

“ I hope your father is careful,” continued the 
old lady, pausing as she crossed the room with 
two bandboxes, one above the other, in her arms ; 
“ ministers don’t know anything about anything, 
as a usual thing, but preaching, and if he should 
get a spark in his eyes it would be sure to make 
him blind. I suppose that the Parsonage is 
insured, but it won’t be enough to build it again 
as it is now, and I ’m sure I don’t know what ’ll 
become of you. Your pa ain’t got nothing laid 
up, of course, — salary men never do have, peo- 
ple say, — and there ain’t a place in the village 
for you to get into. Perhaps you can board 
somewhere, but boarding is awful expensive ! 
However could it have caught now ! I hope 
that your aunt was careful about fire and 
things.” 

“She’s always careful, Mrs. Raymond,” re- 
plied Lou, with dignity. 

“ Papa will find us a place,” said Persis, hope- 
fully. “ O Rue, I don’t like our house to be on 
fire.” 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 221 

“ You ’d better all come away from the win- 
dow,” continued Mrs. Raymond; “ you will all 
get typhoid fever.” 

‘‘Suppose we close it,” suggested Lou. “I 
am thoughtless, Rue, for there is danger of your 
taking cold ; you coughed just now.” 

“ Then we can’t see the fire,” lamented 
Persis. 

“ You see more than it’s good for you to see, 
now,” returned the old lady. “ If this house 
catches, I don’t know where we ’ll be.” 

“ Then you ’d have to find a place,” said 
Persis. “ I know where I’d like to live; next 
to the doctor’s, Lou. The house has a piazza, 
and there ’s such a lovely place for croquet, and 
it has ox-heart cherries, too.” 

Rue closed the window and brought a chair 
for herself. The children stood, but kept their 
arms around her. She was the only part of 
home for them to cling to. 

The crowd in the street and about the Parson- 
age was becoming denser ; out of Rue’s cham- 
ber the flames were bursting. Rue’s heart was 
in the study among the minister’s treasures. 
She could not see its windows, it opened out of 


222 


RUE'S HELPS. 


the back hall ; the flames must have reached it 
long ago.. 

“ This is the first fire there ’s been in Geneva 
for forty years, and over,” said Mrs. Raymond ; 
“ that was old John Harris’s, and all he saved 
was the cook-stove. We ought to have a fire- 
engine. What can those men do with buckets 
of water ? And it has n’t rained for three weeks, 
and more. I said to Isaac at the table to-night, 
‘ What should we do if there was a fire ? ’ and 
he poohed at me and said, 4 How could there be a 
fire ? ’ Now he ’ll see how there could be a 
fire.” 

“ I can’t go to school to-morrow,” said Persis, 
“for I can’t find my things. I wonder if my 
chickens are frightened. O Lou, my three little 
motherless chickens are in a peach-basket by the 
stove ! And I left my tidy on the table in the 
study ! Now Gussie Rufus will be ahead of me, 
and I promised to take it to school to show her 
how much I did before bedtime. But if the 
fire burns it up it won’t be telling a lie.” 

“ I wonder what time it is,” said Lou. 

“ It struck eleven just before I saw the fire,” 
said Mrs. Raymond, coming to the window with 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 223 

a pile of sheets in her arms ; “ I know, for I 
could n’t get asleep, and I was just saying the 
Twenty-third Psalm when I caught sight of the 
fire and screamed to Isaac.” 

“ It ’s to-morrow by this time, then,” said 
Persis. 

“ Then it ’s papa’s birthday,” said Lou. 

“ Yes, it ’s my birthday,” said his voice be- 
hind them, “and I have lost only the things I 
could do without,” he added, taking the three 
into his arms. “ Aunt Gertrude is safe, and 
my other treasures are here.” 

“ O papa,” — Lou burst into tears and sprang 
into his arms, — “ where shall we go ? ” 

“ Home with me,” said Rue, speaking for the 
first time in half an hour. “ I shall take you 
all home, and keep you till you find a better 
place. You will let them come, and you come 
too, won’t you, Mr. Ireton?” 

“Surely; where else should we all go? And 
now, — Persis, daughter, you are choking me ! — 
if you will all go to bed and go to sleep, 
Aunt Gertrude and I will keep watch for you. 
Take good care of each other, and thank our 
dear Father that he has taken care of us.” 


224 


RUE’S HELPS. 


“ Are your books safe ? ” asked Rue. 

“ Yes ; the men took the bookcases out im- 
mediately. I even saw a glass of milk safe on 
the kitchen table in the front yard.” 

“ Did you see my chickens? ” asked Persis. 

“ No, but I should n’t be surprised if you 
found them. Now run to bed ; Mrs. Raymond 
will find one for you, I know.” 

“ Will you come, too ? ” asked Persis. 

“No, I must attend to things. Rue will go 
with you.” Mrs. Raymond led the way across 
the hall into a little back bedroom. “ All 
creep in and be as snug as kittens,” she said ; 
“ the danger is over, and nobody is killed yet. 
I ’ll call you all up to breakfast.” 

The children talked for an hour. Rue tried 
to listen to them, to lose herself in their spec- 
ulations and plans, and when they slept she 
closed her eyes and tried to sleep their trustful 
sleep ; but she could not be a little girl, with 
nothing to fear and all things to hope. She 
must lie awake, and wonder if Mrs. Willever 
had lost all her clothing, if the minister had any 
money to replace his losses, if the Parsonage, 
the dear old Parsonage, would be rebuilt, and 


EVER SO MANY THINGS. 


225 


where Mr. Ireton would sleep in her home, and 
if Mrs. Willever would like Auntie’s room, and 
if it would be too far for the children to walk 
to school. And then — she must have been 
asleep, for Mrs. Raymond’s voice was at the 
door calling them to breakfast. 


16 


VI. 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 

And so this was how it was brought about 
that to Rue was given her heart’s desire, that 
is, one of her heart’s desires. How could she 
know, or how could any one know, that the 
neglect of one of the church trustees to renew 
the insurance policy should help Rue to an 
answered prayer? There was lamentation and 
bewailing in the village that the Parsonage 
could not at once be rebuilt; it would take 
months of scrimping and saving before a new 
house could rise upon the site of the old one, 
and meantime the pastor’s family must find a 
home in the village or among the farmers. The 
pastor decided that he must suffer with his 
people, and to that end sold his horse and made 
his calls afoot, even to the outskirts of the con- 
gregation ; and as a result of this, how the chil- 
dren capered and clapped their hands, and how 
Rue’s eyes glistened and how her heart beat, 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 


22T 


when it was proposed that, as the children could 
not twice daily walk the mile between Rue’s 
home and the school-house, she should become 
their teacher. 

“ It ’s too lovely for anything,” sighed Lou, in 
the abundance of her delight. 

“ It ’s just too splendid,” sang Persis, over and 
over again. 

And Rue? What could she do but run up 
stairs and cry because she had n’t been good and 
patient? And oh, if Auntie could know how 
the bitter water was all sweet ! 

“ The greatest prayer is patience,” Mr. Ireton 
quoted to her. Then hers had been such a 
little prayer. 

Rue’s sunny chamber was fitted up as a 
school-room, and there the three enthusiastically 
studied four hours a day, two in the morning 
and as many in the afternoon, until the* summer 
days, and then nothing would satisfy them but 
chairs, table, and books under the trees. 

Mr. Ireton told the children one day that Rue 
was peripatetic, like Aristotle, and neither of 
of them could decide whether he meant pathetic 
or sympathetic, like Aristotle ; anyway, study 


228 


RUE’S HELPS. 


under the trees was more delightful than any 
long word could express. 

So, also, this was how it was brought about 
that to Mrs. Willever was given her heart’s 
desire. Her greatest prayer had been patience ; 
with her brother and his children cared for in 
a well-ordered home, how could her heart but 
leap forward, and then almost stand still, with 
the shock of the sudden discovery that the 
latest obstacle had been removed, and unless 
some new happening should prevent, she might 
sail away to her mission-field! It was weeks, 
even months, before she could speak of it to her 
brother. At last, in midsummer, after a prayer- 
ful night she went to him, standing before him 
without a word, trembling exceedingly. 

He raised his head, — he was writing in his 
own room, — and met her eyes gravely before 
he spoke. 

“I know all about it, Gertrude, I have known 
it for some time ; every breath you have breathed 
has been freighted with it ; when must you go ? ” 
She stepped forward hesitating; then, as he 
opened his arms, she fell upon his neck and 
wept, as she had not done since she was his 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 


229 


little sister, and he had comforted her for a 
childish fault. And so, without any planning of 
anybody’s, one of God’s set times had come ; his 
set time being always the preparation in the 
hearts of his children. Heart opened to heart 
that morning ; with his sister’s head upon his 
shoulder and his arms about her, he told her of 
a heart’s desire that could not be given to him. 

“ Perhaps you have divined — women always 
do — that I have been hoping for something. 
Do not be too sorrowful for me. I have put it 
away as a thing that God does not hold for me.” 

44 Must you ? ” she asked. “ Can’t you be 
mistaken ? ” 

44 1 can be mistaken, but I feel too sure,” he 
said very slowly. 

44 Oh, Theodore,” raising her head to laugh 
and tumble his hair, 44 you are such a man ! ” 

Both hearts were too full for further talk ; 
with a laugh and a kiss she left him, and he 
took up his pen to write 44 Thirdly ” in a very 
crooked hand. 

Hearts are fashioned alike, but some are fash- 
ioned a little sooner than others, and then what 
is there to do but wait ? And what is there to 


230 


RUE’S HELPS. 


complete the fashioning like waiting? A thought 
like this ran through the minister’s mind and 
fitted itself into the next thought in his sermon. 
Rue always remembered that sermon. One 
expression fastened itself in her heart, — truths 
had a way of slipping through her mind and get- 
ting lost in her heart, — “ To faith all things 
are possible ; to unbelief all things are impos- 
sible.” 

In midsummer Mrs. Willever sailed away to 
the land of her longings, hoping, but hardly 
expecting in the sense of waiting, to return 
some day, — to return to find Persis and Lou 
grown women ; to find Rue the woman that all 
her beginnings promised that she might be- 
come ; and to find her brother older, grayer, 
more gentle, more filled with the fruits of his 
prayers. 

How could she find anything less when God 
was so good? Why should she not hope for 
more than she could ask or think? 

Mr. Ireton, the little girls, and Rue went 
with her as far as they could. The good-by on 
the steamer, with strange voices everywhere, 
made the parting harder and easier for them all. 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 231 

“ I don’t want to go too,” said Persis. 

“ Neither do I,” said Lou. “ I ’d like to see 
the houses built up high, and I ’d like to be 
fanned all day and all night, but I know I’d 
be homesick for Geneva.” 

Rue wondered if she were wicked not “ to 
want to go too.” 

“ Do you want to go, papa ? ” asked Lou, lay- 
ing herself down in the berth to try it. 

“ My parish is Geneva,” he said. “ Do you 
want to go, Miss Rue ? ” 

“ I would rather do good and be good in 
Geneva,” answered Rue. “ I hope it is n’t 
wicked.” 

Mrs. Willever’s light-hearted laugh brought 
rest to her brother in many a weary hour after- 
ward. Rue did not feel at all wicked that she 
chose Geneva when she remembered it. 

“ Aunt Gertrude is as glad to go as we are to 
stay,” exclaimed Lou, with the enlightenment of 
her new thought in her eyes ; “ it ’s funny how 
things are.” 

“ It ’s lovely how things are ! ” said Persis, 
pressing her fingers against the thick glass of 
the state-room window. “ Just suppose that papa 


232 


RUE'S HELPS. 


and Rue and Grace all wanted to go too, then 
we ’d have to go too.” 

“ Perhaps one of my little girls will come to 
me some day,” said Mrs. Willever question- 
ing^. 

“ If papa will,” said Persis. 

“And Rue, and Grace, and Nellie Houston, 
and all the school and Sunday school,” laughed 
Lou. “ And the beautiful new Parsonage that 
is to be.” 

How the children’s talk and laughter eased 
the hearts that would ache despite all the prom- 
ises ! Over all the miles of land and sea Mrs. 
Willever heard the loving, laughing sounds, 
and through all the mists, and storms, and 
smoke of cities, she saw the faces, amused, a 
little troubled, and altogether wet with tears, 
that pressed against her bosom. Without the 
children how could we be happy? Without 
the children how could we bear to be sorrow- 
ful ? That night at home there were tears that 
no one saw. That night in the berth that Lou 
had lain down to try, there were tears that no 
one saw. 

Lessons were rather a sad affair the next 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 


233 


morning. ‘ Rue did not contradict Persis when 
she insisted that Benjamin Franklin was a trai- 
tor, and more than one word on Lou’s slate was 
spelled incorrectly, and not noticed. Mr. Ireton 
walked up and down under the trees in front of 
the gate all through lesson hours. His study 
was too lonely that morning. 

“ Papa is n’t happy,” said Persis ; “ he prays 
in his room ever so many times a day. And one 
day, — I know he was crying, — I did n’t stay 
when I went in for a lead-pencil.” 

“ He has w$,” returned Lou. “ Oh, Miss Rue, 
did God tell Aunt Gertrude to go ? ” 

“ Yes, she says so,” said Rue, looking up from 
an example in arithmetic, wherein Persis had 
divided fourteen by twenty-two, and brought 
the quotient three. 

“ Do you do everything that God tells you to 
do ? ” asked Lou. 

“ I try to, — I wish to,” faltered Rue, think- 
ing of a letter that must be answered that 
day. 

“ Joan of Arc did,” said Lou. “ Don’t you 
remember what she said with her last breath 
when she was burning up? One of the dreadful 


234 


RUE'S HELPS. 


soldiers handed her a rough cross made from 
the stick he held, and she clasped it to her 
bosom. She cried out, ‘ Yes, my voices were of 
God; they have never deceived me.’ If God 
did tell her to do those things, why did he let 
them burn her to death, Miss Rue ? ” 

“ I don’t like to have you know about such 
hard things,” cried Rue, her eyes filling. “ God 
took care of her ; he did n’t let the fire burn too 
hot.” 

Rue’s letter was not answered that day, nor 
the next day, nor the next; they all noticed 
her pale face and large troubled eyes, and 
spoke of her among themselves. Oh, how she 
missed Auntie ! How she cried out, “ Auntie, 
Auntie ! ” during her sleepless nights ! 

God had taken Auntie ; but he had not taken 
himself. She remembered that, at last, and 
prayed and went to sleep. 

“ No one can ever get a word out of Rue,” 
thought her mother to herself. “ Why does n’t 
she come to me ? ” That question found an 
answer through all the days and years that the 
mother, by her tones, her manner, and her cold, 
worldly plans, and her cold, worldly views of 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 235 

things that Rue had cared for, had forced 
mother and child apart, — forced apart, because 
mother and child are born heart to heart ; the 
child’s heart is the mother’s heritage. This 
mother was worldly, but not worldly-wise ; the 
worldly-wise mother works hard to keep her 
influence over her children. 

Grace did not expect Rue’s confidence ; she 
was afraid of it as something too delicate for her 
handling. 

“She is sorry about Aunt Gertrude,” the 
children said to each other, and thoughtful Lou 
begged for a holiday with Nellie Houston. 

“ It is strange that she cannot come to her 
friend and pastor,” the pastor mused; “how 
poor a friend and pastor I must be ! ” 

To whom could she go ? Through what 
human lips would God speak his will to her? 
She could listen to one who listened to God ; 
but who was so near to him ? Who would think 
of his will above all worldly advantages and 
disadvantages ? She could not trust her own 
heart ; her own heart was not in the matter. 
Could she go to Mrs. Miller and ask her how 
God would like her to choose? Mrs. Miller 


236 


RUE'S HELPS. 


would say, — and Rue smiled as she heard her 
say it, — “ When I was young and so on, and 
had such things to think of and so on, I used to 
let older people and so on judge for me.” 

Mrs. Raymond would tell her all her expe- 
riences, and say “ When Isaac and things ” a 
dozen times. Mrs. Eager would spread abroad 
that Rue Erskine was in great spiritual distress. 
Julia Nevers would love to help her, but she 
was swayed by everybody’s opinion. Mrs. 
Johns — how would she do? She believed in 
God, and that he spoke to her every day ; 
could she make it plain that she ought or ought 
not to do a certain thing that somebody had been 
asking God to move her to do ? God had not 
moved her to do it ; she did not want to do it. 
But ought she to want to just because some- 
body had prayed about it? Mrs. Johns could 
help her ; she would find her in the twilight, 
and assist her as she put the children to sleep, 
and then ask her. Did God direct everything, — 
everything? Had he sent her to Mrs. Johns ? 

After an early tea — it was Friday, and the 
tea hour was hastened because of the weekly 
lecture in the church — Rue wrapped herself 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 


237 


in a white shawl of Shetland wool, put on her 
gray straw-hat, and with her gloves, a magazine, 
and a basket of harvest apples in her hand, 
started for the village. 

“ Are you going to church, Miss Rue ? ” 
asked Mr. Ireton. 

“ Not so early,” replied Rue, flushing. 

“ Will you not wait and' ride with us all? ” 

“ I like to walk towards the sunset ; I shall not 
be late at church. I am going to see Mrs. Johns.” 

“ She is a lovely little lady. She breathes 
purer air than some of us do.” 

“ I believe that,” said Rue, eagerly. “ Do you 
think she sees clear ? ” 

“ I think that she walks in the light, because 
she follows the Light.” 

“ Oh, I am so glad that you think so ! I want 
her to tell me — to talk to me.” 

“ May she help you, daughter ! ” 

Rue always brightened when he spoke to her 
as if he loved her like Persis and Lou. 

Might she ask him ? Did he know better 
than Mrs. Johns? Surely, he breathed the purer 
air also ; and he was the messenger of the Lord 
to her, because he was her pastor. Hesitating, 


238 


RUE'S HELPS. 


her heart fluttering, with a question almost upon 
her lips, she stood in the path near the gate ; 
he was standing near the children’s flower-bed, 
looking down at the mignonette and ladies’- 
slippers. His voice was as gentle as usual, but 
there was a sternness about the lips, an expres- 
sion of effort at self-control in the eyes, that 
stopped the question that was throbbing through 
every drop of blood in her veins. He was not 
approachable, she was afraid. Mrs. Johns 
would understand her. 

“ May I go too ? ” called Persis from an upper 
window. 

“ No ; you will stay and go with me,” returned 
her father. 

Walking slowly’ towards the sunset, Rue 
framed in many fashions the question that she 
desired to ask ; but not in any words that she 
had chosen did it come from her lips. 

The children had each eaten an apple, had each 
kissed Rue to their heart’s content, and had 
obediently gone up stairs to bed; the church- 
bell would sound in twenty minutes, — Rue 
knew after glancing at the clock, — but one 
minute could hold a truth, and the truth was 
all that she was hungering after. 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 239 

“ Mrs. Johns, I am troubled and worried and 
frightened, and I have n’t Auntie any more, 
so I have come to ask you, because you care. 
Suppose somebody should pray for a year or two 
for you to be willing to marry him, and you 
could n’t be willing, would you marry him, just 
because he was good and prayed about it ? ” 

“ O you dear darling ! Are you going through 
that? I went- through it once.” 

“ Did you marry him ? ” asked Rue in her 
usual direct manner. 

“ No, indeed; he has a lovely wife,' and is as 
happy as a king.” 

“ Who helped you out ? ” 

“ Who always helps us all ? God, no one 
beside.” 

“ Must he help me, then, without you ? ” 

“ He helped me that I might help you. Now 
I see one reason that I went through it. I used 
to wonder why ; now I see.” 

She drew Rue down beside her at the open 
window. Rue’s eyes strayed down the long 
road towards home. “ Did you feel as I do ? ” 
she asked. 

“ I did not love him, I did not need him, I 


240 RUE'S HELPS. 

did not want to love him or need him,” replied 
Mrs. Johns. 

“ I feel so — just so. This is the second time. 
I said 4 no ’ once, some time ago, but he does 
not give me up.” 

“ Shall I tell you your trouble ? ” 

“ Oh, please do ! ” Rue brought her hands 
together as she used to do when listening to 
Auntie. 

“You are looking at his side of the matter. 
God does not ask you to judge for him, but 
for your own self. We ’ll talk about his side 
after we settle yours. Who owns you, Rue 
Erskine ? ” 

After a startled instant Rue spoke in a start- 
led voice. “ God, Christ, the Holy Spirit ! ” 

“ Then the question is, 4 What does God wish 
to do with you ? ’ Your question is to God, 
your answer is to him. You speak to him ; he 
speaks to you. No one beside has a right to 
interfere. Do you believe that ? ” 

“ I do,” said Rue, solemnly ; “ with all my 
heart, I do.” 

“ Then tell him how you feel about it.” 

“I do — I have — over and over, but I get 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 241 

bewildered thinking of the other side. I don’t 
want to be selfish.” 

“Is it God’s will that a woman should love 
and obey her husband ? ” 

“ Yes, he says so.” 

“ Do you love this man ? ” 

“ Not one bit ! ” exclaimed Rue, so energeti- 
cally that Mrs. Johns laughed. “ But I am so 
sorry for him.” 

“ Nonsense ! God does n’t command wives 
to be sorry for their husbands, and to be sub- 
ject unto them. Could you honor God, do his 
will, any better by being subject unto this 
man ? ” 

“ Obeying everything he said? No ; we don’t 
think alike about things. I don’t want to obey 
him. When I obey I want to obey some one 
who obeys God better than I do, who knows 
more about him than I do,” said Rue, earnestly 
speaking her thought as it formed itself in her 
mind. 

“ Is this man an intelligent Christian ? ” 

“ He is n’t like Mr. Ireton, he is n’t like my 
father, — I thought I might help him.” 

“ On his side again ! What that man does is 
16 


242 


RUE’S HELPS. 


nothing to you until God has spoken to you 
about yourself. Follow Christ, don’t follow 
vain thoughts. I confess that I can’t see the 
first reason for you to marry him.” 

“ Except his prayers,” said Rue, with some 
determination. 

“ Suppose Lou Ireton should pray that you 
might cut off your hand and give it to her, 
would that be a good reason for doing it? ” 

“ No, because God wishes me to keep my 
hand and do what he bids with it. He gave 
me my hand to keep for himself.” 

“ He gave you yourself to keep for himself. 
He bids you give a loving, obedient heart to 
your husband, — you can’t give that heart to 
this man; therefore this man is not your hus- 
band, not your God-chosen husband. He is the 
himself-chosen husband, but that is between 
himself and God ; you have nothing to do with 
that any more than you have with any other 
prayer of his. When God has a work for two 
people together, he tells both; he doesn’t tell 
one, and let him worry the other into it.” 

“ I like that,” exclaimed Rue ; “ that helps 
me.” 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 


243 


“Is this man hurrying you for a decision ?” 
asked Mrs. Johns, rather indignantly. 

“ Don’t be angry with him; he can’t help it,” 
pleaded Rue. 

“ I should n’t think he could,” was the laugh- 
ing reply; “ but he has no right to press you to 
your hurt. This day is God’s day, and if he 
withhold his will from you, no man has a right 
to hurry you into guessing it. Be sure; no 
guesswork. God speaks, or he does not speak. 
God called Moses once, and kept him waiting 
ten days to see what he had called him to do. 
He called Ezekiel once, and kept him waiting 
seven days for his message. He kept Mary and 
Martha waiting, don’t you know ? The prepa- 
ration of the heart and the answer of the tongue 
is from the Lord, not from any one besides ; not 
from your own imaginings or longings or yearn- 
ings to do somebody good, — God can help peo- 
ple without you or me ; no one but God can help 
the man who is n't willing to help himself. And if 
he is willing to help himself, he does n’t need you 
and me ; that is, he does n’t need us to our own 
hurt. Somebody says, ‘ Haste is of the devil,’ 
and I believe it. ‘He that believeth shall not 


244 


RUE'S HELPS. 


make haste.’ When you are tempted to hurry, 
stop and think if God wants you to hurry about 
his work. Take a year, or ten years, for a de- 
cision, before you take one step in the dark. 

‘ With God, go over the sea ; without him, not 
over the threshold.’ ” 

“ I have n’t taken one step yet, I could n’t. I 
did not dare.” 

“ Can you now? ” 

“ After you have told me about his side.” 

“His side — God knows,” said Mrs. Johns. 

“ Is that all?” 

“ That ’s all.” 

“Don’t I know anything?” 

“ If you do, tell me.” 

Rue pondered, looking out of the window 
down towards home. 

“I don’t know — anything,” she returned 
slowly. 

“ God does n’t want you to know, or he 
would tell you. He ’ll have a lovely wife and 
be as happy as a king, I hope. There ’s the 
bell ; are you going to church ? ” 

“ I want to write my letter first.” 

“ Very well ; I ’ll find pen, ink, and paper.” 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 245 

Rue seated herself at the doctor’s desk, 
dipped his coarse steel pen into the ink, thought 
a moment, and then wrote rapidly. Some 
one was waiting for the mail, waiting for an 
answered prayer; oh, how hard that a denied 
answered prayer must be sent through her! 
She had prayed “ Use me for thyself,” and God 
was using her to give pain. She had become a 
sharp instrument in his hand. 

Her letter was like a cry of pain, short, sharp 
in its intensity, and as sorrowful as sympathy 
could make it. When she prayed again, “ Use 
me,” she would remember that God used his 
instruments to smite, when smiting worked his 
will. 

She laid her letter in Mrs. Johns’s hand, not 
looking at her while she read it. 

“ You dear darling ! ” Mrs. Johns exclaimed, 
kissing her; “now you have no more care. 
Put on your things ; the bells are ringing.” 

On the way to church they stopped at the 
post-office. Rue dropped her letter with a 
prayer that the one who was waiting for the 
mail might take the letter from God and not 
from her. 


246 


RUE'S HELPS . 


The bells had ceased ringing when they 
entered the church; only a few of the people 
had gathered, and but one side of the church 
was lighted ; every head was bowed ; the min- 
ister was standing near a table in front of the 
pulpit, speaking to God in behalf of the people. 
Rue staggered into one of the back pews, and 
dropped upon her knees, resting her head upon 
the rail in front. Wearied even to faintness, she 
could not utter one word, she could not follow 
the pastor’s voice; her heart beat her thanks- 
giving, and God knew. 

If she followed him at all that evening, she 
was not aware of it. She was comforted ; but 
whether by his thoughts or her own, she could 
not tell. He told simply and impressively the 
story of Rebekah. She had hurried God. He 
had permitted himself to be hurried to the hurt 
of her sons, her blind old husband, and her own 
most sorrowful heart. 

In her fright and eagerness she had inquired 
of the Lord and received a promise. God held 
the good thing in his hand for her, but she had 
snatched it ; she could not wait for him to drop 
it into her hand. The time of speaking or of 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 


247 


giving is one thing that God reserves to him- 
self ; no one has a right to force him to give or 
to speak. I give the words as Rue thought 
them to herself; knowing her own need, God 
may have given her a thought all to herself. 
The pastor preached one sermon, but God was 
preaching as many sermons as there were listen- 
ing hearts in the house. 

Rebekah never forgot, as the boys grew and 
grew, “ The one shall be stronger than the 
other ; the elder shall serve the younger.” And 
she loved the }^ounger best, better than elder 
son or husband ; so well, indeed, that she 
sought to take God’s place to the lad and to 
make God’s promise sure to him. She could 
not trust God to choose the time, she chose the 
time for herself. She did not remember that 
Jacob belonged to God, and that the promise 
was between these two who belonged to each 
other. In her haste she must meddle, she must 
interfere. Was God neglectful, or had he for- 
gotten, that she must hasten him? The old 
father’s eyes were dim, so that he could not see; 
they were young once, and had looked upon her 
and loved her. Were God’s eyes dim, too, so 
that he could not see ? 


248 


RUE'S HELPS. 


The Lord waited. He did not chide her, he 
did not by a breath frustrate her plans ; he let 
her hurry herself and hurry Jacob ; he even 
gave them — mother and younger son — the 
thing that he had promised, and they took it 
and rejoiced, and then their hearts were broken. 

Oh, how Esau’s great and exceeding bitter 
cry must have wrung Rebekah’s heart ! That 
was the beginning of her punishment. Esau 
hated Jacob after that. There were only these 
two brothers, only these two sons, but mother 
and father could not keep them any longer. 
The one the mother loved best must be sent 
away. The boy had the blessing of the first- 
born, but what was it to him or to his mother? 

Do you know what a curse is ? Sometimes it is 
a blessing of our own getting, our own disobe- 
dient getting. When Jacob came back years 
and years afterward he came back to his father. 
The old man was buried by his sons Esau and < 
Jacob. 

Where was Jacob’s mother? When her eyes 
were old and dim, what was her son to her ? 
What was the good to her of this blessing that 
she had snatched from God? Was she glad in 







HURRYING PROVIDENCE . 


249 


her lifetime, is she glad to-night, that she hurried 
God because she did not believe in him ? “ He 
that belie veth shall not make haste.” 

Thus the second time that day was Rue 
refreshed and strengthened. “I want to walk 
home,” said Rue, coming out into the summer 
starlight. “ I want to be all alone by myself,” 
was the thought that she did not speak aloud. 

“ What a freak, child ! ” exclaimed her 
mother, hastily. “ You have walked one way 
already.” 

“ I am not tired, and Lou will walk with me,” 
returned Rue, as Lou slipped her hand within 
her arm. 

“ We want to talk about the stars,” said Lou. 

“ If Miss Grace will drive — ” began the 
minister, stepping down the last step behind 
them. 

“ Oh, I ’ll drive ; come, mother and Persis ! ” 
cried Grace in her lively voice. 

Rue was not sure that she liked this arrange- 
ment. It would be polite to talk if Mr. Ire- 
ton wished to talk, and she had not a thought 
in her mind beside the thoughts of the last 
hour. 


250 


RUE'S HELPS. 


The carriage passed them as they walked 
down the hill, — the girls with linked arms, 
and Mr. Ireton walking beside Lou. 

Lou loved to talk, but she knew how to be 
silent. Rue remembered afterward that scarcely 
a word was spoken the whole length of the star- 
lighted mile. “ Lou, we must study to-morrow,’* 
she said, as Mr. Ireton opened the gate. 

“ Saturda} r ! ” exclaimed Lou. 

“Oh, I forgot. This week has had no days 
for me. It has been a year, and not a week.” 

“ May I congratulate you upon its happy end- 
ing ? ” asked Mr. Ireton. 

“ Yes, thank you,” said Rue, simply. 

The minister sighed that night as he fell 
asleep : “ Oh, what a poor friend I must be for 
my people not to seek me in their perplexities ! ” 

But Mrs. Miller had sought him that very 
week to consult him concerning a vexation, and 
had not Mrs. Wayne come to him in tears to 
tell him of the sudden death of her brother ? 

Rue burnt a package of old letters that 
night, feeling so free, so relieved, that she almost 
sang aloud for joy. Would God always guide 
her, always keep her from making haste ? 


M 


HURRYING PROVIDENCE. 


251 


“ Perhaps I shall be made a blessing some 
time ; I don’t like to be used to hurt people,” 
she thought. As if a hurt could not be made 
the best blessing, when the instrument is in 
God’s own hand! 


VII. 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 

To the little girls this was a wonderful summer, 
— a new summer, for no summer had ever been 
like it, — the happiest and most beautiful summer 
they had ever lived ; not that the sun had shone 
all the time, not that Lou had not suffered fre- 
quent headaches, not that Persis had not burnt 
her hand, and cut her finger, and they had both 
been poisoned, face and hands, with mercury, 
and Lou had spilled a whole bottle of ink over 
the open pages of her father’s new Life of Dr. 
Macleod, and Persis had burnt two collars and 
a pocket-handkerchief while learning to iron, — 
all these hard things had happened to them, and 
had been borne with tears, and patience and 
impatience ; still, despite these very hard things, 
it had been a new, wonderful, and beautiful 
summer, the happiest that they had ever lived. 

It is true that Aunt Gertrude had gone away ; 
but then they had Rue. And Grace ! Grace 
was a whole world to the little girls. Rue was a 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 253 

whole world to the little girls, and a bit of heaven 
beside. 

First of all, after being settled in the new 
home and having a lovely chamber under the 
roof all to themselves, with only a bedstead, 
two chairs, a long chest, and a box for a wash- 
stand for the furniture within, but a window 
opening out into the tree-tops for the furniture 
without, and after having cried a little and 
laughed a great deal over the fire that had 
burnt up the Parsonage, and after settling down 
to study as quietly as they could in their flutter- 
ing state of excitement, they began to look up 
and down, around and about them, with wonder 
in their eyes and exclamations . upon their lips, 
for who could have believed that within a mile 
and a quarter of their own home they could find 
so many new things ? Papa said that it was 
because they had Miss Rue’s eyes to look 
through, and Miss Rue’s ears to hear with. 

One of the first new sounds was the cry of 
the screech-owl ; the little girls had said their 
prayers, and told each* other who they loved 
best, and were half asleep with their arms 
around each other, when the tremulous doleful 
notes startled first Lou and then Persis. 


254 


RUE'S HELPS . 


“ Oh,” shivered Lou, “ wake up, Persis ! Do 
you think somebody ’s getting killed? ” 

“ There it is again ! ” cried Persis, clinging to 
Lou ; “ let ’s run down to papa.” 

Instantly two pairs of bare feet were patter- 
ing down the stairs ; two little figures in white 
tumbled into their father’s arms with a cry and 
exclamations. 

“ There it is again ! ” 

“ Oh, papa, do you hear it ? ” 

“ It ’s out in the barn.” 

“ It ’s up in the trees.” 

“ You poor little goosies,” he laughed, “ you 
certainly don’t mean that screech-owl ! ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Lou. 

“ Oh!" cried Persis. 

“ Papa, don’t tell we were frightened.” 

“ Papa, promise not to tell that we were 
frightened.” 

“ I ’ll promise,” he said seriously ; “ threaten- 
ings and torture shall not draw it from me. 
Run out to-morrow and look for it.” 

“ So we will,” said Persis. 

“ Owls only see in the night,” replied Lou. “ I 
know when I am laughed at. Let us not be 
owls, let us go to bed.” 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALE 255 

“ Is that all about the screech-owls ? ” asked 
Persis. 

“ Tell us, papa, please,” coaxed Lou 

Pushing his book from him, Mr. Ireton took 
them both more comfortably into his arms and 
talked to them about owls. Grace and Rue 
wondered, after that, why the children were con- 
vulsed with laughter when their father called 
them his little screech-owls. 

It was very little that he could tell them, but 
it gave them a new interest in the feathered 
friends that sung about them every day. After 
they were safe in bed again, laughing at their 
fright, they told each other what they had 
learned. 

“ The owl preys upon mice, small birds, — 
and is n’t that too bad ? — and beetles. Its cries 
may be heard several hundred yards. I should 
think they could, they sound so horrid and 
human. Its nest is in a hollow tree ; they lay 
four or five white eggs. Owls bound, and make 
long leaps. Is that all, Persis ? ” 

“ No, it finds nests; it don’t like to make one 
for itself.” 

Lou told her bosom friend, Nellie Houston, 


256 


RUE'S HELPS. 


about their fright, and wrote in her journal 
about her 44 midnight adventure.” 

Another new thing — and this time they were 
not startled — was spying a woodpecker pecking 
with its long bill into the bark of the trunk of 
the arbor-vitse tree in the front yard. Lou ran 
for Persis, and both stood on the piazza watch- 
ing it until it flew away. Lou wrote a description 
of the first woodpecker that she had ever seen : 
44 The woodpecker that I saw had a white 
breast, a black and white head, red tuft, black 
wings trimmed with white upon the upper part 
meeting in the back in a white streak. Miss 
Rue said that it was called the red-headed 
woodpecker. That reminds me of my best and 
dearest friend, Nellie Houston. She has red 
hair, and one day I said to her when the sun 
was shining on her hair, ‘Nellie, your hair is 
pretty.’ 4 Pretty red,' she said. Red-headed 
birds are beautiful. But I like people better 
than birds, and so does papa and Miss Rue.” 

But more interesting than the woodpecker 
and the owl did the children find the little bird 
that cried, 44 Phebe, Phebe ! ” They heard this 
cry first in the morning. “She has lost her 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL . 257 

sister and is calling for her,” said Persis. “ Per- 
haps she ’s dead, and she thinks that she can call 
her back.” 

“ Oh no, she is n’t dead,” said Lou, consol- 
ingly ; “ she is hiding among the leaves just to 
tease her little sister.” 

“ Phe-be ! Phe-be ! ” called the little bird 
from out its nest under the eaves of the 
piazza. 

“ I wish Phebe would come,” Persis often 
said. “ What a lonely bird I ’d be, calling, 
‘Lou! Lou /’” 

“ I ’ll always come as soon as you call,” said 
Lou, “because } r ou are my only little sister.” 

Another call that pleased the children 
sounded to them like “Ma- ry, Ma- ry.” It was 
loud, impatient, shrill, clear. They heard this 
only in the twilight. “ Mary has gone to milk,” 
imagined Persis, “and her mistress is calling 
her to come quick.” 

“I wouldn’t go quick to such a mistress,” 
said Lou, indignantly ; “ I ’d be afraid she ’d 
box my ears.” 

“ Ma-xy ! iHfa-ry/” called the bird from the 
branches over their heads. 

17 


258 


RUE’S HELPS . 


“ Miss Rue,” said Lou, “ do you know about 
the 4 Ma - ry ’ bird ? ” 

Rue was gathering her sewing materials. 
She had been sewing under the trees that after- 
noon while the children were reading aloud to 
her. 

“ Yes ; I know the loveliest thing about 
her ! ” 

“ She is n’t lovely,” declared Lou ; “ I ’d never 
sing if I had a voice like that.” 

“ It does mew and yawl, — I don’t like that ; 
it is harsh and disagreeable. But sometimes it 
sings the sweetest music, as mellow and sweet 
as you can think. It has the power of imita- 
tion, and I ’ve read that it can imitate perfectly 
a strain of Yankee Doodle.” 

“ I wish it would,” cried the girls together. 

“ Perhaps we did not notice it in the spring ; 
it sings its sweet notes then.” 

“ What is the lovely thing ? ” asked Persis. 

“ That it can sing sweetly, even if it is cross 
sometimes,” said Rue. 

“ Then it is like — like — ” Lou laughed, 
colored, and hesitated. She had almost uttered 
“ Mrs. Erskine.” Mrs. Erskine was very kind 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 259 


to the little girls, and checked herself when 
tempted to fuss over them or fret at them. 
They were bringing the color to Rue’s cheeks, 
lightness to her step, and all the old zest back 
to her life. Mrs. Erskine would have borne 
with naughty children for Rue’s sake, and these 
children were little ladies. The sweetest, sweet- 
est music that the children heard this summer 
were the notes of the wood-thrush ; soft, liquid, 
plaintive, it sounded when the sunset left the 
sky and the stars were coming out. Opposite 
the farm-house was a deep, shady glen, through 
which ran a little stream. Behind the glen rose 
the dark woods. From out the glen or the woods 
this evening music always seemed to come. 
“ Our evening psalm,” Lou called it. 

Earlier in the spring they listened to the whip- 
poorwill. They were very sorry to miss it when 
the summer came. In June, however, Bob 
White came trilling along with its jubilant note, 
and Persis declared that she almost loved that 
best. Sometimes it called Bob White and some- 
times Rob-ert White. 

“ Bob White, 

Wheat ripe ? 

Not quite,” 


260 


RUE’S HELPS . 


it called and called through the sunshiny days, 
but they never tired of listening and fancying 
stories about it. Sometimes Bob White was the 
brother who had gone out in the field to see if 
the wheat was ripe, and the other brother was 
calling to know if he must come and help him 
cut it; sometimes Bob was the brother gone 
over the sea, like Paul, and the sister was call- 
ing to tell him that the wheat was ripe, not 
quite. But who could Rob-ert White be? A 
more dignified personage, perhaps the farmer 
who owned the wheat. Oh, if Phebe and Mary 
and poor Will and Bob White would all come 
back together some day ! 

“ Everybody is calling for somebody,” said 
Lou. “ I have everybody, — but I sha’n’t have 
when Aunt Gertrude is gone. If I were a little 
bird I ’d call for mother and little sister and 
Aunt Gertrude. Would you call for Auntie, 
Miss Rue ? ” 

“ No,” said Rue, softly. 

“ Jesus hears them,” said Persis. “ Papa told 
me that he likes to hear the birds sing.” 

Almost a new thing this summer was the rain- 
bow ; or it seemed new when they stood on the 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 261 

piazza, late one afternoon, with Rue, and looked 
at it, looking towards the east. They talked 
about the colors, and then about the first rain- 
bow. 

44 4 And the bow shall be in the cloud, and I 
will look upon it/ ” quoted Mr. Ireton from the 
doorway. 

44 Then he is looking, too, just now,” said 
Persis, softly. 

Mrs. Erskine’s head was over the minister’s 
shoulder. 44 You will find a pot of gold, chil- 
dren, if you can run to the end of the rainbow. 
Just where it begins is the pot of gold.” 

44 Can we? Did anybody ever?” asked 
Persis. 

44 The rainbow means something better than 
a pot of gold,” said Rue, wishing that her 
mother had waited a second longer before she 
spoke. A shade passed over the minister’s sen- 
sitive face ; Mrs. Erskine’s tone had grated upon 
him after the hush of the child’s voice. 

44 Blow a feather over the roof of the house, 
and you ’ll find another pot of gold on the other 
side where the feather is,” said Grace, with her 
head over the minister’s other shoulder. 


262 


RUE'S HELPS . 


Rue laughed. Mrs. Erskine and Grace never 
understood anything about rainbows excepting 
pots of gold. 

Almost a lovelier sight than the rainbow was 
a silver shower that Rue called the children 
down stairs to look upon one evening when they 
were preparing for bed later than usual. The 
full moon was shining clear, when suddenly a 
cloud darkened its face and the rain began to 
fall. As the rain fell the cloud became lighter 
and lighter, passing away to leave the moon 
shining upon the rain and through the rain. 
The silver shower lasted but a few moments ; 
then the moonlight shone down upon the glis- 
tening tree-tops. 

Another thing that made the summer new to 
Rue as well as to the children, although this 
was more a part of autumn than summer, was 
beholding for the first time the moon rising 
while the sun was setting. Rue and the chil- 
dren were returning from a drive, driving to- 
wards the sunset. Suddenly, as they were pass- 
ing the mill stream, Lou exclaimed, “ Look at 
the water ! Oh, how lovely ! ” 

“ It ’s the sunset,” said Persis. 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL . 263 

“ No, it ’s the moon,” said Rue. 

Behind the tall trees that fringed the edge of 
the stream the full moon was rising. Rue drew 
the rein ; they sat silent awhile, feeling the 
glory and the beauty, the golden light upon the 
shadowed water, and in the west a golden and 
crimson glory. Along the south ran the rosy 
light, and towards the north the whole earth 
was filled with the beauty of the Lord. The 
children pointed out this light and that shadow, 
that color in the west and this in the south, 
went into raptures over the boat on the water, 
and begged Miss Rue to wait just one little 
moment longer. 

“O papa!” cried Persis, and “O papa!” 
cried Lou, when he came out to hitch the horse 
and lift them from the carriage. 

“ Can’t you say ‘ O papa ! ’ too, Miss Rue ? ” 
laughed Mr. Ireton. 

“ Our story is all in that,” said Rue, “ for we 
never can tell you about it.” 

Two little girls in the neighborhood, about five 
and six years old, “dropped” seven thousand 
strawberry plants in ten days; our little girls 
became fired with enthusiasm, — was there not 


264 RUE’S HELPS. 

some little thing that they could do to earn 
money ? 

“ Money, what for? ” questioned their father. 

“ To build the Parsonage,” said Persis, 
quickly. “ Every night Lou and I make plans 
about making money to build the Parsonage.” 

“ Will you let us pick strawberries, papa ? ” 
asked Lou, eagerly. “ Nellie Houston does ; 
she did last summer.” 

“ May we go to Mr. Oliver’s to pick? ” asked 
Persis. “ They had four girls and ten boys in 
that field one day.” 

Mr. Ireton rubbed his hands together thought- 
fully. “ I ’ll answer your question in strawberry 
time, children.” 

“ That means yes,” cried Persis, joyfully ; 
“ for you would n’t keep us waiting so long 
and then disappoint us.” 

Her father bent over to kiss her. “ You have 
comforted me, child.” 

“ And if we care so long you will know that 
we do really care,” added Lou. 

“ That is my comfort, Lou,” said Rue, quickly. 
“ What little preachers our little girls are, Mr. 
Ireton ! ” 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 265 

After this how could their father refuse their 
united coaxing in strawberry time ? Early one 
morning, while yet the dew was on the grass, 
the little girls started out to pick strawberries, 
attired in short old calico dresses, with broad- 
brimmed hats shading neck and face, and feet 
well protected with thick shoes. What a day 
that first day was ! Oh, how their heads ached, 
how stiff their limbs were, how tired from head 
to foot they were that night ! And what a 
marvel of sweetness and colors the strawberry- 
patches were ; how bright with wild morning- 
glories, how fragrant with pennyroyal ! And the 
cunning little birds’-nests hidden away ! And 
the red strawberries and white ones and tiny 
green ones, all growing on the same plant ! And 
the fun the boys and girls had had ! And Persis 
had picked eight quarts and earned sixteen 
cents, and Lou had picked twelve quarts and 
earned twenty-four cents, which made both to- 
gether forty cents, and they were not so very, 
very tired, and oh ! could they go to-morrow ? 
In ten days they would earn four dollars towards 
the new Parsonage ! 

Lou picked five days, earning one dollar and 


266 


RUE'S HELPS. 


a half; Persis picked five days, earning one 
dollar. On the sixth day they were very easily 
persuaded to stay at home. They went together 
to Mr. Hatch, one of the church trustees, and 
put into his hand their earnings. 

“ What ’s this for ? ” he asked. 

“ The new Parsonage,” they replied, both to- 
gether. 

“We don’t like not to have a parsonage, so 
we picked strawberries,” said Persis. 

“ It looks so homeless and desolate,” said Lou, 
“ and we want one just like the other.” 

“Well, I’m beat!” exclaimed Mr. Hatch. 
“ You bet that all the old ladies will cry over 
this.” 

Whether or not this had anything to do with 
it nobody ever told, but the ladies of Geneva 
gave an ice-cream festival on the Fourth of 
July, and raised one hundred dollars towards 
building the new Parsonage. At Christmas an- 
other hundred was laid away, the proceeds of a 
fair being devoted to that purpose. Not to be 
outdone, the Mite Society gave seventy-five dol- 
lars out of their mites, and everywhere before 
spring the people were gathering together to 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 267 

consult as to ways and means to raise a build- 
ing fund. 

“ The parson was pretty cunning, setting his 
children up to that,” observed one old man. 

But Mrs. Johns, Mrs. Hatch, and Mrs. Ray- 
mond contradicted the insinuation to everybody, 
and if the parson heard of it he did not give it a 
thought. 

Mr. Ireton tried to be careful for nothing. 

The girls never wearied of talking to each 
other about their “strawberry adventures.” 
They had a fashion of meeting with adventures 
everywhere. Once in the woods they were 
frightened by a snake, at the head of the lane 
they discovered a nest with twenty eggs in it, 
and once they even found seventeen tiny, 
newly hatched chickens in the cow-stable where 
nobody had guessed to look. One day they 
brought home a nest of field-mice. And it was 
nothing at all for them to find the loveliest wild- 
flowers in the woods, the most wonderful bits 
of stone, the greenest and freshest mosses and 
ferns, and they even caught little fishes with 
their own hands in the brook. 

Not all play, not all out-of-door work, not all 


268 


RUE'S HELPS. 


riding or driving, not all learning to iron and 
sweep, not all watching the gutter come, not 
all learning to sew, was the summer, however ; 
there was a great deal of good, downright hard 
study for both of them. 

Rue was an enthusiastic student; she was 
also an enthusiastic teacher. Her discipline was 
excellent, the children behaved as perfectly as if 
they were in the first class of a young ladies’ 
seminary; during school hours nothing was 
permitted save hard work. The new things 
the children learned would fill this book. Per- 
sis thought that she had learned so much that 
there was nothing left for her to learn. Lou 
would not say so, for the world, but she be- 
lieved that she had learned everything that Miss 
Rue knew ! 

All the fun they had the children knew, all 
they learned they knew, all the things they did 
they knew, but all they were how could they 
know ? To Rue, one of her greatest helps ; to 
their father, his little comforters. How much 
they learned about God this summer they never 
could know ; but Lou’s heart echoed lovingly 
Persis’s words, “ I think that he ’s just as good 
as father.” 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 269 

To Grace this was a new summer because she 
was living a new life. It was a new experience 
to think about obeying God in all things, to 
remember that he cared for everything she did. 
It was new, and not easy, to become interested 
in the Bible. She did not love books ; they were 
strangers to her, and not friends. The Bible 
was a book to her, as all other books were books. 
She labored conscientiously over a chapter morn- 
ing and night; the words were printed words, 
not a living voice, as they were to Rue. She 
thought that Rue was very queer to have her 
Bible around at all times ; even among her books 
out under the trees, she would look up from it 
and speak to Lou about the flowers, or smile at 
Persis, or bow to a friend, and if Mr. Ireton 
chanced to be near, would ask him some ques- 
tion, and they would both talk as earnestly as 
she and her mother were talking in the house 
about household affairs. It was queer about 
Rue; there were several things queer about 
her ; but this familiarity with the Bible, this not 
being afraid of it, were among the queerest. 

She must “ work in the vineyard,” of course ; 
did not all the Sunday-school people urge her? 


270 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Therefore she went to the superintendent and 
asked for a class. 

“ I don’t know very muck about anything, 
but I want to be doing something,” she said. 

She did not know very much about anything, 
and about the Bible least of all ; but she did 
know that she was wicked, and that God, for 
Christ’s sake, had forgiven her. She loved to 
talk; she was a bright, pretty talker, and her 
little girls loved to listen to her, and to look at 
her pretty face, and to kiss her after Sunday 
school. She was winning, therefore she won 
them. Not one of Rue’s boys clung to Rue with 
more love than did Grace’s girls cling to her. 
They loved her, and they wanted to be good. 
Rue’s boys loved her , and wanted to be good. 

Grace loved and prayed ; Rue loved and stud- 
ied and prayed. 

Another hard thing in Grace’s new summer 
was the trying to be patient with her mother. 
She always tried, but she was not always pa- 
tient. It was so wearing on a hot morning to 
be preparing dinner, and to be constantly re- 
minded to hurry about this and hurry about that, 
to be bidden to cut bread with a knife, to be 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 271 

told to take up the potatoes in a dish, to be 
warned not to break every article that she 
touched, and with it all to hear every instant 
complaints of the heat, and to be called to sym- 
pathize every few moments with the pain in her 
head, the stitch in her side, and the weakness in 
her back. Beside the weather and her own 
aches and pains, she worried about the crops, — 
whether the corn was hoed often enough, and 
if there were not too many weeds in the pota- 
toes ; the hay was cut too soon, and the wheat 
was too ripe ; there would be nothing coming in, 
and how discouraged father would be ! 

* Grace laughed and sang, to keep tart replies 
from coming to her lips. Sometimes she ran 
away for a few moments, up stairs to make the 
beds, or out to Rue and the children under 
the trees, to draw a free breath and to get a little 
patience. 

She could not write to her father and Paul 
about the change in herself ; she could scarcely 
reply to her father’s questions concerning her 
“ state.” 

Grace might have a “ state,” but she was no 
more aware of it than were the birds under the 


eaves. 


272 


RUE'S HELPS. 


The minister in the early summer had sought 
opportunities to converse with her, to teach her, 
to ask her questions ; instantly she became con- 
fused and tearful, avoiding him for days after- 
ward. How stiff and stern, how unfriendly, 
how unapproachable, how theological and min- 
isterial, he must appear to her! He accused 
himself and examined her, but sought no more 
to win her confidence. Did not Christ under- 
stand his own ? Was he not teaching her every 
hour of every day through the discipline of 
home ? His unconscious influence, bis love to 
his children, his sweet charity towards all, his 
unfeigned love of the truth, his morning and 
evening prayers, were moulding Grace’s teach- 
able heart more than all his conscious efforts 
could have done. 

Grace was as joyful as the birds, as sunny as 
the sunshine, as busy as the bees. Bird, bee, 
and sunshine was she to them all. If she were 
anything to herself she did not understand it. 

Such a hot, suffocating, weltering summer 
Mrs. Erskine had not known since she was a 
girl. Her head had never troubled her before 
as it had this summer. Sometimes she was 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 273 

really afraid that she was losing her mind. It 
would not have been the least wonder if she 
had, for she had never had so much care in her 
life, — there was the captain away, leaving her 
the charge of the farm, and here was the min- 
ister and all his family on her hands. Of 
course they paid excellent board, and of course 
they expected excellent board in return. Mrs. 
Willever was a lady, and so were the little girls ; 
but four people in a house made a difference, 
and most of all to her who had every hand’s 
turn to do. From Monday morning till Satur- 
day night she stood upon her feet in that close, 
hot kitchen. The boy churned ; but then she 
might as well have churned. She took the but- 
ter up, and salted it, and worked it over, and 
laid it down for the winter, for nobody knew 
how large the family would be all winter. 
When she was n’t on her feet, baking, cooking, 
cleaning, sweeping, she was on her knees wash- 
ing that kitchen floor! Mrs. Willever said that 
there 'was n’t a kitchen floor like it in all Ge- 
neva ! The minister said that he had never 
tasted such bread and butter, and how the chil- 
dren did enjoy her cookies and molasses cake ! 

18 


274 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Sunday was just as busy a day as any other 
day, for the minister must have his meals in 
time, and the girls had to go to Sunday school. 
Some people worked in the vineyard by staying 
at home and helping other people. People who 
stayed by the stuff didn’t get much credit; 
but she would like to know how the girls could 
teach in Sunday school, the minister preach, and 
Mrs. Willever go to teach the heathen, unless 
somebody stayed at home and worked for them. 
Without bread and butter to keep folks alive, 
what would be the good of ministers and mis- 
sionaries ? 

It was very lonesome without the captain ; 
it had been so handy for him to know when the 
flour barrel was empty, and it was such a care 
to look out about the taxes. She hoped that 
Paul and his father were getting on together. 
If Paul did n’t behave his father would n’t no 
more mind treating him like one of the sailors ! 

Paul was as tender-hearted a boy as ever 
lived, and could n’t bear too much restraint. If 
he never lived to come back — Well, Provi- 
dence was over all, and if people prayed, and 
did their duty, and read their Bible regular 
every Sunday ! 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 275 

The summer was hot and suffocating, and 
winter would be cold and blustering. Some 
people took life easy. She was thankful that 
she had sense enough to feel things. 

Now there was Mrs. Willever going away, 
perhaps forever, from her motherless nieces and 
widowed brother with a face as serene as a 
child’s. And there was the minister, with all 
his responsibilities, laughing like a boy when he 
played games with the children ! It would n’t 
be always summer-time ; winter would come to 
these light-hearted people, and then — Mrs. 
Erskine sighed and sighed through the summer- 
time. 

Mrs. Willever’s face was as serene as a child’s 
all the spring and summer. Had not God given 
to her her heart’s long, hungering desire ? She 
studied with the children, drove with them, had 
long talks with Rue about them, planning their 
studies for the years ahead, planning about 
everything she could for them in the years 
ahead. “ They will always have you , Rue. 
How that cheers me ! You must be mother and 
sister and auntie all in one to them ; you are 
capable of being to them all they need of 


276 


RUE’S HELPS . 


womankind. They will always be making 
friends of their own age, but I want you to be 
first. If their father marry, — and I think he 
will, but God knows, — my little girls will not 
be forgotten.” 

A summer of many regrets, a summer of 
many hopes, of plans, of packing, of sewing, of 
reading and writing, and then the going away. 
How soon this summer had come and passed, 
while a year ago it seemed never coming ! 

A summer with an unknown homesickness in 
it, her heart almost breaking with the longing 
that it had for them all ; but was not God upon 
the water as well as on the land ? They all were 
with him ; she was with him also, so how could 
they but be close together and close to him ? 

To the children’s father, to Mrs. Willever’s 
brother, to Rue’s good friend, to the people’s 
pastor, this summer was also a new summer. 

“Mr. Ireton is growing to be the loveliest 
Christian,” said Mrs. Johns to her husband. 

“ There do seem to be a new spirit in the 
dominie,” remarked Mr. Raymond to his wife. 

“ I could listen an hour longer ! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Hatch, one morning after service. 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 277 

44 You talked to me this evening ; it was 
just what I wanted,” said a young man to the 
minister. 

Being a new summer to the pastor, how could 
it but be a new summer to his people ? 

His one prayer for his people was, “Make 
them hungry for thy truth;” his prayer for 
himself, 44 Give me thy truth to give to them.” 

About the heart’s desire of which he had 
spoken to his sister, he did not trust himself to 
think. In praying about it he had but one 
petition, 44 Give me thy will.” Over and over 
again he assured himself that he had no hope ; 
the hearts of the children of men were in the 
hand of the Lord, and human love he would 
give or withhold. He said this to himself as 
calmly as he would have said it to another. 
He remembered that God reaches us good 
things through our own hands, but his hands 
were lifted only in prayer to God, never 
once toward the good thing itself. 

He could not see any evidence that God’s 
time had come for him to take it. Often 
tempted to run ahead of his prayers, he re- 
strained himself, or, as he expressed it, he was 


278 


RUE'S HELPS. 


restrained, believing that he must follow, not 
lead. 

Rue felt all this in his prayers. His prayers 
more than his sermons were a help to her this 
summer ; even he, living in the pure atmosphere 
so far above her, had something to wait for, to 
be prepared for. She did not think to wonder 
what it might be, for of course it was something 
holy and self-sacrificing. She liked to think 
that, like Mrs. Willever, he might reveal it to 
her some time in the years to come, when she 
would be old enough, wise enough, and good 
enough to understand it. She was afraid that 
she did not fully appreciate Mrs. Willever’s 
heart’s desire. There was no one in the world 
to whom she could tell her own. When the 
letters from that old friend whom once she had 
refused to marry had first come to her, she had 
been filled with the thought that now, at last, 
she might answer somebody’s prayer ; perhaps 
in this way her own heart’s desire might be 
given to her. 

Not to understand, not to see anything 
clearly, to wish so sincerely to do right and yet 
not know the right, was baffling, bewildering. 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 279 

For several weeks she groped along a dark way, 
not coming to the light until Mrs. Johns had 
opened her eyes to see clearly; even then it 
was hard to give up the thought that she might 
be an answered prayer to somebody. 

She did not often ponder, in itself, her de- 
sire to be used for God’s service, or, in itself, 
think of her prayer and the date in her Bible 
opposite the words, “Now Jesus had compas- 
sion ; ” but the desire itself was so intense that 
it not only swayed every thought, but it utterly 
possessed her. It was not a part of herself, it 
was herself. She was consecrated to it, set 
apart from everything that could hinder it. 
She was not conscious of this ; others were, 
however. 

“ I ’m not half as good as I ought to be,” 
Julia Nevers once exclaimed, after an afternoon 
with her. 

Another thing that made this summer a new 
one to Rue was the loving confidence of her 
boys ; and more than this, a thousand times 
more than this, the deciding to serve Christ by 
every one of them. They were received into 
the church the first Sabbath in September. 


280 


RUE'S HELPS 


That day was one of the happiest days that Rue 
had ever lived. 

“You led us to Jesus,” Will Adams said to 
her. 

Had her heart’s desire already been given to 
her, or were these the days of preparation ? 

Never before this summer had she so heartily 
studied the words of Jesus. Each Monday 
morning she chose a few of his words, and 
studied them all through the week. 

What the summer was to Paul she learned 
through his letters. He was boyishly jubilant 
over all the new sights, and thoroughly in love 
with a sailor’s life. 

“ Father is getting to be splendid,” he wrote. 
“ It is wonderful how he has changed. We have 
such jolly times together.” 

Paul did not guess that it was wonderful how 
he had changed. In one of his letters to Rue 
her father wrote, “ Paul is not only a good boy, 
he is a remarkable boy.” 

“ I wish I could keep this summer,” Rue 
almost sighed, speaking to Mr. Ireton. 

“Can you not believe that there is another 
for you just as good ? ” he said. 


WHAT THE SUMMER WAS TO ALL. 281 

Over little Geneva summer came and went. 
In the spring the village was fragrant with 
locust blossoms ; in the autumn, glorious with 
the golden and brown and crimson beauty of 
the maple leaves. 

Summer came and went, and winter was at 
the door. Rue could not hold the summer back, 
and before she was ready for it, she was teach- 
ing the children to kindle a fire upon the hearth. 


VIII. 


TO-MORROWS. 

The winter to each of them was very much 
what the summer had been. It was their own 
individual life in-doors, instead of out-of-doors ; 
or in-doors with windows and doors open, in- 
stead of in-doors with windows and doors shut, 
Bob White and Phebe and Mary and poor Will 
were no longer called after ; the sunsets were 
nearer the south than the north ; under the trees 
where they used to study the carpet was white, 
or brown, or harsh with dried short grass ; all 
the trees were bare excepting the pines and the 
arbor-vitse ; the twilights were short, and dark- 
ness came soon, and in the cold mornings the 
children loved to sleep. Their sleeping-room 
was no longer under the eaves, but down stairs 
in the hall bedroom that opened into Mrs. 
Erskine’s large, well-lighted, well- warmed cham- 
ber. This room she gave to them for a school- 
room if they would promise to keep their books 


TO-MORROWS. 


283 


and papers in good order upon the table. But 
they liked the sitting-room better, and four 
o’clock always found them in the broad window- 
sill, reading the same book, with their arms 
around each other, or before the fire on the 
hearth, huddled together, talking about the fire 
or their books or papa or Rue or the girls in 
the village, and sometimes about all of them at 
the same time. 

Rue’s musings before the fire were no longer 
lonely. How thankful she was that these chil- 
dren had been brought into her home ! These 
children, who loved her as dearly as she loved 
them — almost ! Who else in all the world 
could have comforted her for Auntie ? 

If it were not just like God to be alwaj^s 
thinking of her, it would have been very won- 
derful for them to come to her just when she 
needed them. As it was, it was not wonder- 
ful at all. Indeed, rather would it be won- 
derful for God not to think about her when he 
loved her so much, and it would be wonderful 
for him not to love her when his heart was all 
made of love. 

The afternoons were passed in the dining- 


284 


RUE'S HELPS. 


room, because the fire and the sunset were 
there, and because the children liked to be there 
in time to set the tea-table and to see Grace 
open the can of fruit and to help her cut the 
cold meat. In the evening they all gathered 
in the parlor, — Mrs. Erskine saying that it was 
not dignified for the minister to sit in the din- 
ing-room, — and there they read, sewed, played 
games, and fell into genial, helpful talk. Often 
Mr. Ireton read aloud, as he had done at the 
Parsonage ; but oftener they talked of things 
past, things present, and things to come, which 
Rue liked best of all. One evening while the 
children were trying to guess what might hap- 
pen next year, Mr. Ireton said to Rue : “ I like 
to think how happy God must be in knowing 
all the future ; how many happy surprises he 
has for us, and to-night he is working them out. 
Christ said, 4 My Father worketh hitherto, and I 
work.’ They are working together for us, and 
allowing us to be workers together with them, 
and all things are working together!” After 
a moment he said, 44 1 don’t know what I 
should do if there were not three in the God- 
head ! How we do need them all ! ” 


TO-MORROWS. 


285 


Rue was the only one who ever replied to 
remarks like these. Mrs. Erskine did not know 
what to say; any word of a religious nature 
shut up her lips as tightly as if they were 
sealed, and Grace, while thinking that they 
were good words and sounded like church and 
the Bible, supposed that Mr. Ireton talked so 
because he was a minister and thought he must. 

Rue knew that there was no “ must ” about 
it; in her enthusiasm for him she was almost 
ready to say that he walked with God like 
Enoch. And who can say that he might 
not? 

January, February, March, — how they flew 
past ! Like the summer months, Rue wanted to 
keep them back, holding fast all the good they 
were bringing. 

“ I ’ll be sorry when the Parsonage is built,” 
said Persis in a doleful voice one evening. She 
and her father were sitting in the sofa corner, 
and Rue and Lou were before the open door of 
the air-tight, — Rue on an ottoman, and Lou on 
the carpet at her feet, with her head in Rue’s 
lap. 

“ Why, Persis Ireton ! ” exclaimed Lou. 


286 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Well, you won’t have to be sorry very soon, 
if that ’s any comfort.” 

“ I like to stay here ; don’t you like to have 
us stay here, Miss Rue?” 

“ I don’t want you ever to go away ; I would 
be satisfied always to live just as we are now, — 
only Paul and father must be home.” 

“ Then what would become of all your grand 
dreams, Miss Rue ? ” asked Mr. Ire ton. 

Rue smoothed Lou’s hair thoughtfully before 
she spoke. What had become of all her grand 
dreams ? 

“ I don’t know that I have any grand dreams 
now ; they are certainly not grand if I would 
be satisfied always with what I have now and 
what I do now. I hope it is n’t wicked in me, 
but I do feel very satisfied to-night.” 

“ So do I,” said Mr. Ireton gravely, holding 
Persis closer in his arms ; “ I hope it is n’t 
wicked in me.” 

The firelight was the only light in the 
room ; it shone through the open air-tight door, 
touching Lou’s face and Rue’s hands, and as 
she bent over Lou it brightened her face and 
hair. 


TO-MORROWS. 


287 


Rue was very happy and rested nowadays; 
the firelight shone on a happier face than it 
shone upon a year ago ; the restlessness was all 
gone, there was something sweet about the 
mouth, the eyes were peaceful ; in time peo- 
ple would call Rue Erskine sweet. How she 
would have laughed had she thought this ! She 
was not a bit sweet to herself. In her heart 
to-night there was not one drop of bitterness. 
She could not understand now how she had 
ever stopped at Marah. How the bitter water 
had been changed she did not know. Who had 
changed it, that she did know. 

“ Rue,” — Lou dropped the title of respect 
when she was very much interested, — “have 
n’t you any grand dreams? I have.” 

“ Not now. I like nothing so well as to find 
every day the work set for me to do. The 
work is always grand enough. Isn’t it grand to 
teach you and Persis, and to make chocolate 
cake, and to write letters, and to take things to 
sick people, and — ” 

“ No, that is n’t grand,” said Lou. 

“ No, I have n’t any grand dreams,” said Rue, 
slowly. 


288 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ ‘ So, of the doing of God’s will 
Our foolish wills undoeth,’ ” 

quoted Mr. Ireton. 

“ I have a grand dream,” said Persis, sitting 
up straight; “I want to be a naturalist, and 
have bugs and things and birds’-eggs.” 

“ And I want to go to help Aunt Ger- 
trude,” said Lou, slowly and solemnly; “may 
I, papa ? ” 

But papa would not reply. 

“ When I was a little girl,” said Rue, “ about 
as old as Persis, at a meeting of Sunday-school 
children I heard Dr. Scudder from India ; he 
asked us all to go home and write on a slip of 
paper, ‘Dr. Scudder wants me to come out to 
India to help him.’ I went home and wrote it, 
and kept it in my writing-desk for years ; not 
long ago I tore it up.” 

“ I ’m going,” said Lou. “ Will you let me 
go, papa, dear papa?” 

“ You are mine, but not mine first ; if your 
Father in heaven asks you to go, I will not keep 
you back.” 

“ Then I ’ll have to' keep house for you, 
papa,”, said Persis contentedly, stroking his 


TO-MORROWS. 289 

chin. “ Rue and I will keep house for you, and 
then you won’t care, will you ? ” 

“ Yes, he will care,” said Lou ; “ but he ’ll 
give me up, like Abraham.” 

“ Miss Rue will have a grand dream herself 
by that time,” said the minister. 

“ I should n’t wonder,” laughed Rue ; “ if I 
don’t by that time I never shall. Isn’t that 
the tea-bell? Oh, how I hope that we shall 
hear from father and Paul to-night ! Oh, Mr. 
Ireton, you ’ll never know how much good your 
talk about waiting for the mail did me ! It 
helps me every day.” 

“ It helps me too, every day,” he replied. 

There was weary waiting for the mail for 
weeks and weeks after that. Paul and his 
father were bound to Antwerp. They were due 
in March ; at the last of April not a word had 
been heard. 

Mrs. Erskine exhausted herself and exhausted 
them all with her continual worry ; even her 
prayers were but a worrying before the Lord. 
Not two hours went by that she did not pass 
through a shipwreck with all its horrors in 
detail, changing her lamentings only to bewail 
19 


290 RUE'S HELPS. 

themselves and their desolate home. How 
were they to get along without father ? Who 
could she depend upon in her old age ? Oh 
that Paul had been brought into the world to 
come to such an end as this ! If it had hap- 
pened years ago she could have borne it. There 
was Captain Greenleaf lost at sea, and his 
wife waited two years before she put on mourn- 
ing. She always kept his boots with his stock- 
ings inside hung up in the porch where he had 
left them. She was a widow indeed, and never 
thought of marrying. And there was father’s 
oldest brother ; he went down on a moonlight 
night, not a breath of wind blowing. She 
knew that sea-captains never came back if they 
went to sea after they had given it up. What 
did possess him to go she couldn’t tell, for 
there was no lack of anything at home, and she 
had always been as patient as a lamb, and had 
never given him a harsh word about anything. 
If they put the farm out to different people 
year after year, what would become of it? 
Every man would think about himself, and 
rake and scrape all he could get, and in 
five years the land would be as bare as a pine 


TO-MORROWS. 


291 


board. There was Rue in her delicate health ; 
what could she do to support herself? And 
what did Grace know about the world and get- 
ting along ? They might take boarders — 

Grace moved about the house with swollen 
eyelids, trying to be faithful and hopeful and 
patient, and thinking that this must be one 
of the times when God heard prayer. Mrs. 
Erskine talked about the salt in her butter 
between her times of bewailing with all her 
accustomed interest and vigor, coaxed the chil- 
dren to take three pieces of pie, and told every- 
body at the table how each separate article of 
food was prepared. 

Grace “made over” a gray merino for her- 
self, and when she tried it on could not help 
wondering if mourning would be just as be- 
coming. 

The children looked frightened unless papa 
or Rue were with them, and Persis dreamed of 
shipwrecks, and Lou cried out in her sleep. 
And Rue ? She did everything that she always 
did. The one thing that she could not do was 
to stay alone in the room with her mother ; her 
fingers would become so weak that she could 


292 


RUE'S HELPS : 


not hold the work she was doing, and she 
would tremble from head to foot so that she 
could not stand. 

“What ails you, child?” asked her mother 
one day, pausing to take breath in her long- 
drawn-out account of how father must have 
suffered from hunger before he went down. 
“ You are as pale as a ghost, and you don’t eat 
anything. It will do you good to go some- 
where. Why don’t you go to Sewing Society 
this afternoon? Mrs. Raymond always has a 
full house and good suppers. It will do you 
good; you’d better go. You are losing all 
your health fussing over those children. Four 
hours a day is too much for anybody to pore 
over books. Captain Deering was one hundred 
days from Liverpool to New Orleans, and he got 
in safe ; lost a mast though, and was almost a 
skeleton himself. Have n’t you anything to 
wear this afternoon ? ” 

“ I don’t want to go,” said Rue. 

“ You are queer about going out, not a bit 
like a young girl. Before I was married I had 
three silk dresses, and I went everywhere. I had 
fourteen good dresses the day I was married.” 


TO-MORROWS. 


293 


Rue laughed, and broke the eggs into the cus- 
tard she was making with more strength in her 
fingers. 

“ Rue is laughing,” said Persis tocher father in 
the dining-room. “ I know that she thinks now 
that her father will come back.” 

The first day of May Rue persuaded Mr. 
Ireton to send the children to Mrs. Johns for 
a while. Persis was losing her color, and Lou 
could neither eat nor sleep. 

“Don’t you want to go somewhere too?” 
she said earnestly ; “ mother troubles you so ! 
Poor mother, I suppose that she can’t stop talk- 
ing.” 

“ Do you want me to go ? ” he said. 

Rue’s eyes filled ; she tried to speak, caught 
his hand, and burst into tears. She had kept 
the tears back all this weary time. “ O father, 
father ! ” she cried, dropping her head into the 
sofa pillow. Sobs and convulsive weeping could 
not be checked ; she moaned and cried, shiver- 
ing and trembling. 

“ Our Father, our dear, kind, loving Father,” 
broke in a calm, pleading voice, “ thou art so 
wise, so good, so loving, so careful about us — ” 


294 


RUE'S HELPS. 


God was very near; he always was to Rue 
when Mr. Ireton spoke to him. Was he not, 
at that instant, as near to her father and Paul 
as to them? She could listen, her heart re- 
peated every word ; her “ Amen ” was very 
full. She kept her face in the pillow, the 
tears coming softly. 

The tea hour came. Mrs. Erskine had made 
milk toast for tea, but Grace would not disturb 
Rue, for she was sleeping so quietly. Mr. Ire- 
ton thought of Christ asleep on a pillow in the 
storm, and knew that if he should come now he 
would find just such faith on the earth. 

The stage passed ; the boy went on horseback 
to the mail. Grace ran out to meet him, stand- 
ing at the gate watching for the first glimpse 
of the old white horse. Mrs. Erskine skimmed 
milk, and washed the milk-pans, and was down 
in the buttery working over the day’s churning, 
when Grace rushed in with letters. 

“Good news! Good news!” she shouted. 
“ Wake up, Rue.” 

“ Do let me see ! ” cried Mrs. Erskine, ex- 
citedly. 

“ Letters from father and Paul, and the Her- 


TO-MORROWS. 


295 


aid has the arrival. You know last night’s 
Herald didn’t come, and here it is with the 
arrival in it. I happened to open it before 
to-night’s paper.” 

Mr. Ireton had been walking up and down 
the piazza ; he went in to Rue, touching her face 
softly with his hand. 

“ Do you want to wake up to # hear good news, 
Rue ? ” Rue stirred, and opened her eyes. 

“ Oh, is it so late ? Why did you let me sleep ? ” 

“ Good news ! Good news ! ” shouted Grace. 
“ Here ’s your letter, Rue ; we each have one. 
They are all safe, and alive, and well. Father 
did get into trouble, though, but it ’s all over. 
And it ’s so strange that we had to miss the 
Herald last night.” 

Rue was trembling so that she could not 
stand. She lifted her hand for her letter, but 
could not hold it. 

“ Shall I read it to you ? ” asked Grace. 

“ No, I ’ll read it in a moment. I did n’t 
know that I was such a goose.” 

“ Rue, come and eat your supper,” cried her 
mother’s voice from the dining-room. “ I ’ve 
kept your toast and tea hot this hour.” 


296 


RUE'S HELPS. 


But Rue refused, lying back again on the sofa 
with the unopened letter in her hand. 

“ Shall we give thanks ? ” asked Mr. Ireton. 

Grace had gone out, and Mrs. Erskine was 
putting wood into the stove to keep Rue’s sup- 
per hot. 

“ Yes,” said Rue ; “ I wish they would come, 
too.” 

Mr. Ireton did not wait for them to come. His 
prayer was all thanksgiving. 

Rue could only cry out, “ I don’t know how 
to thank Thee ; but, oh, I do want to be so 
good ! ” 

The suspense had made no outward changes ; 
the joy of the good news made no outward 
changes. A stranger might have thought that 
yesterday was just like to-day. 

Yesterday was not like to-day to Rue ; yester- 
day she was brave and strong, to-day she was 
as weak as a child. For many days she had 
only strength to move about the house, none for 
work or study, none to walk or drive. It was 
with a great effort that she nerved herself to 
answer her letters. 

The children came home when the good news 


TO-MORROWS. 297 

came, but Persis was not troublesome, and Lou 
was a perfect nurse. 

“ I wonder,” said Rue, one da} r , wben the 
voyagers were homeward-bound, and she was 
strong enough to resume work and study, — “ I 
do wonder, Mr. Ireton, why that Herald had to be 
delayed, and we had to have that last twenty- 
four hours’ suspense. That last day was the 
hardest of all. It seems now that I couldn’t 
have lived through the next day without hear- 
ing from them.” 

“ Yes, you could ; you could have lived had 
you never heard. Mary and Martha lived 
through the days when Jesus did not come; 
they lived to see their brother die and to bury 
him.” 

“ Then you don’t know why that Herald had 
to be so long coming ? ” 

“No; I don’t know everything. Do you 
know why ? ” 

“ It seems strange that somebody’s careless- 
ness should cost us all so much. Perhaps it was 
slipped down somewhere in our post-office, and 
God knew that it was there and wouldn’t let 
us have it.” 


298 


RUE’S HELPS. 


“ He would not, that means that he willed 
not, to let you have it. Are n’t you satisfied 
with that?” 

“ Yes,” she answered slowly, “ I am satisfied 
— with that.” 

“God is on the throne; don’t forget that,” 
said Mr. Ireton. 

“ Thine is the power,” said Rue ; “ when the 
power hurts, I almost forget whose power it is.” 

Her father’s last letter to her from Antwerp 
Rue did not like to think about. One brief, 
commanding, characteristic sentence was ever 
in her mind. “ It was all very well for you 
to have a house full while I was away, but I 
want my family to myself. I ’m too old to be 
troubled with children.” What would home be 
now, even with her father and Paul in it, if she 
could not have the children? The old times 
would all come back: her mother would fret 
just the same, her father would have all the old 
worries to bear, and Paul would be more than 
ever discontented with farming. Grace would 
go away again ; the burden of hard work would 
be laid upon herself ; there would be no young 
life, no hours of study to help her bear it. 


TO-MORROWS. 


299 


She would miss the children, morning, noon, 
and night; she would miss them in her sleep. 
It almost seemed as if she would have nothing 
left to live for ; before she had had them she 
could bear living without them, but next winter 
she would not have them, and she would not 
have Auntie. 

She would miss the minister every day; she 
would miss him as she had missed Auntie. His 
presence in the house helped her to be strong. 
She did not like to think how she would feel to 
be down stairs, and not to know that he was 
up stairs, ready to catch her voice or footfall. 
But he was not the children ; she could spare 
him better than she could spare the children. 

Oh, how wicked she must be ! Oh, what 
would her father think if he knew that she 
would rather that he would stay away if she 
might keep the children ! She had thought 
that the bitter water could never come back, 
and this was bitter, with more bitterness added. 
To seek to persuade her father, to tell him all 
that the children were to her, never once en- 
tered her thoughts. In the first place, she could 
not tell him ; in the second place, he could not 


800 


RUE'S HELPS. 


understand, he would not be moved at all ; he 
would say sternly, “ Go with the children if you 
love them best.” 

Did she love them best? Was she so un- 
grateful ? But they needed her. They had no 
sister, auntie, mother, beside herself, and her 
father had everything beside herself. Would 
it break their hearts too? Perhaps she could 
go to them every day and be governess ; but 
suppose Mr. Ireton did not ask her, could she 
propose it herself ? Perhaps the children would 
think of it themselves and coax their father. 
Her mother could not understand how she felt, 
nor Grace, and how could she tell Mr. Ireton 
that her father did not want the children there ? 

In July Mr. Ireton went away, taking his two 
weeks’ vacation earlier than usual; when he 
returned she must tell him about the children ; 
she would rather tell him than let her mother 
do it. It hurt her, as if she were sending them 
all away because they were unwelcome. 

“You must take vacation too, Miss Rue,” 
Mr. Ireton said the morning that he went away. 
“ I want to find your cheeks as rosy as the 
children’s. No study, remember; nothing but 


TO-MORROWS. 


301 


air and sunshine. Can’t you be a little child 
like Persis and Lou, and trust your Father as 
they trust me ? ” 

“I wish I could,” said Rue, “but I have 
something so hard to do.” 

“ When?” 

“ Oh,” hesitating, “ when you come back.” 

“ Then you ’ll have strength for it when I 
come back.” And not till then, because she need 
not do it till then, therefore she would not 
think of it till then. And something might 
happen — What could happen? The sky 
might fall, but her father would not change 
his mind. She could pray about it, but what 
could she ask God to do? Was she so selfish 
as to ask that she might keep the children when 
she knew that her father would be annoyed? 
Such a prayer would not be in the unselfish 
spirit of Christ, so how could she plead her 
desire in his name and for his sake? She could 
not ask that she might go with the children, for 
God had given her this home to stay in until he 
bade her go elsewhere. Could she ask that her 
father’s mind might be changed? What could 
she ask, what could she do ? Braiding Persis’s 


302 


RUE’S HELPS. 


hair, looking over Lou’s drawing, the question 
was ever the same. She kept near them with 
the tenderest solicitude, counting the days; in 
August her father would be at home, in Au- 
gust she must lose them. “Like as a father 
pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth — ” she 
read one evening. “I want the Lord to pity 
me more than father would,” she sighed. “ If 
father were only like the Lord I could tell him 
all about it.” 

Another time she read : “As one whom his 
mother comforteth, so will I comfort you.” “ I 
don’t want to be comforted so,” she thought. 
“ I want more comfort. I want more than 
father’s pity, more than mother’s comfort. Oh, 
sha’n’t I ever find God’s heart in any human 
relationship ? I have n’t found it yet in father, 
mother, brother, or sister.” 

Wearied and worried, the days passed; Persis 
hung around her, and Lou tried to “kiss the 
heartache away.” 

“ Papa ’ll find out why she does n’t laugh so 
much,” said Persis, confidently ; “ you just wait, 
Lou.” 

But Lou had a heartache herself one day 


TO-MORROWS. 


303 


that needed somebody’s kissing away. Rue 
found her crying and moaning one afternoon, 
lying on the soft green banking of the ice- 
house. The ice-house stood near the apple 
orchard, under the low branches of an old apple- 
tree. On this bank was the children’s retreat 
on hot afternoons. The view extended oyer the 
fields, towards the woods, where the summer 
sunset was ; and down the long line of dusty 
road, towards the town, Persis had gone driv- 
ing with Grace. Lou had refused to go, and 
had taken Mrs. Hemans and hidden herself 
since dinner. 

She would not lift her head nor speak when 
she heard Rue calling, “ Lou, Lou ! Lulu ! 
Louise, Louise ! ” 

Rue’s steps came nearer ; then a cry, “ Why, 
Lou, dear! ” and Rue was close beside her, draw- 
ing her head into her arms. 

“ I ’m in trouble ! ” said Lou, piteously. 

“ In trouble ? Is it so very bad when Persis 
is happy, and you have a long letter from Aunt 
Gertrude, and papa is coming home to-morrow? ” 

“ And you are happy ? You are in my world 
too.” 


304 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ I shall be happy as soon as you are. What 
is it, little girl ? ” 

“ Something horrid ! ” confessed Lou in a 
choking voice. “ I heard Mrs. Hatch tell your 
mother this morning that papa had gone away 
to be married.” 

“Is that the way you love your father?” 
asked Rue, indignantly. “Do you think that 
he would treat his little daughters so ? ” 

“ I thought he ’d tell me first,” sobbed Lou. 

“ Most certainly he would tell you first ; he 
would tell you all about her and tell her all 
about you. It is n’t true ; I know it is n’t true. 
So, girlie, you have wasted all your tears. Papa 
would be sorry if he thought that you could 
distrust him so.” 

“ I won’t any more. But she said ever so 
many other things. I was sitting under the 
parlor window reading Mrs. Hemans, and I 
did n’t listen till I heard her say, ‘ So the dom- 
inie has gone to get married.’ ” 

“ Why did n’t you come to me immedi- 
ately?” 

“ I felt too sorrowful,” said Lou, discon- 
solately. 


TO-MORROWS . 


805 


“ Tell me what you know about your father.’’ 

“ I know that he ’s the loveliest, dearest, 
sweetest, kindest father in the world, and that 
he loves Persis and me better than anybody,” 
she cried enthusiastically. 

“ Then don’t be so naughty again, will you ? ” 

“No, I never, never will; but I’ll tell him 
what Mrs. Hatch said, though, every single 
thing she said.” 

“Will that be wise ? Perhaps it will annoy 
him.” 

“ Then I won’t ; but I want to. Aunt Ger- 
trude talked to me about it before she went 
away ; she said that papa was so lonely with- 
out mamma, and that there was somebody just 
as lovely and kind as mamma, and she would 
love us dearly, and we must love her all we 
could, and I said I would and I knew Persis 
would, — but I think she meant that there 
might be somebody, not really is , for papa don’t 
know about it, or he ’d find her. Don’t you 
think so ? ” 

“ Yes, .1 think so. Now wipe all these 
naughty, distrustful tears away, and the next 
time you waste so many — don’t do it.” 

20 


306 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ I do feel better ; but, oh, how sorrowful 
I was ! I am not a real little girl any longer ; 
I am fifteen.” 

“You will be papa’s housekeeper pretty 
soon.” 

“ Not till the Parsonage is built,” said Lou. 

Mr. Ireton would be at home to-morrow; 
her father would certainly arrive in a week at 
the longest, and she must tell him that he 
might find a home for the children. With a 
heavier heart than fifteen-years-old Lou could 
understand, she arose and went in, leaving her 
to Mrs. Hemans, while she sought her mother. 

Mrs. Erskine had just awakened from her 
afternoon nap, and was as cross as she usually 
was at that hour in the afternoon. One glance 
at her face deterred Rue from consulting her at 
present. 

One of the Cyclopaedias that Lou had been 
searching was laid upon a chair on the piazza. 
Rue tossed her hat away, and, dropping into a 
camp-chair, opened the book to the Language 
and Literature of Egypt. She was examining 
a list of the alphabetics in common use, and 
looked up to call Lou to enjoy the study with 


TO-MORROWS. 307 

her ; but the call stayed upon her lips at the 
sudden presence of Lou’s father. 

“ Why, Mr. Ireton, how did you get here ? ” 

“ I walked from the train. Is that so surpris- 
ing ? ” 

“ It would n’t have been surprising to- 
morrow. I will call Lou ; how glad she will 
be ! Persis has gone everywhere with Grace. 
Persis said that she was going everywhere. I 
am very glad to have you home again.” 

“Are you?” he said, holding both hands 
in his own. “ Where are your rosy cheeks ? ” 

“On the way. Have you had a happy 
time?” 

“Yes ; only that I wanted to be home. I was 
really homesick.” 

Mrs. Erskine’s quick step crossed the dining- 
room. With face glowing and hand extended, 
she stepped out on the piazza. “ Why, how 
well you look ! Have you had any dinner ? I ’ll 
get you something in five minutes. The girls 
are as chipper as birds. Will you have tea or 
coffee ? ” she asked hurriedly. 

“ Neither, thank you. I believe that I am 
tired ; I will rest. I would rather not eat any- 
thing until tea-time.” 


308 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“I know you are hungry,” muttered Mrs. 
Erskine, returning to the kitchen. 

Rue went to the ice-house bank to call Lou, 
and found a grassy nook to think in while Lou 
had her first hour alone with her father. 

“ He ’ll see my eyes,” said Lou, running 
off. 

Rue turned the leaves of Lou’s book, not dis- 
cerning one letter ; she must tell him before 
she slept, and then it would be over. The 
children would cry, and she would cry, and then 
they would all wipe their eyes and try to be 
good, and wait to see what would happen next. 
Lou’s tears were naughty because she had dis- 
trusted her father; how sinful were her own 
because she could not trust her wiser, more lov- 
ing Father ! 

The minister lingered down stairs that even- 
ing long after the children had gone up to their 
chamber. Mrs. Erskine locked the back door 
and the front door, and closed the windows ; 
Rue was bending over a Cyclopaedia in as easy 
an attitude as if it were ten o’clock in the morn- 
ing instead of ten at night. Mrs. Erskine fidg- 
eted, and gave numerous orders to Rue about 


TO-MORRO WS. 309 

her lamp, and at last said good night and went 
up stairs. 

“ Rue,” — the minister came to the table and 
laid his hand upon her open book. 

“ Sir ? ” said Rue, wondering why she felt 
frightened. 

“ You do love my children so dearly, and 
they do love you so dearly, I feel like a cruel 
tyrant, — do you think I am?” 

“Are you going to take them away?” she 
asked slowly. 

“ I have decided to send them to my brother’s 
widow. She is a most lovely woman ; she has 
girls about their age ; she will attend to them 
as if they were her own ; they will stay with 
her until they are graduated. She will be 
like a mother to them. Am I breaking your 
heart?” 

“ Yes,” said Rue, smiling through tears ; “but 
I knew that it had to be broken, so it does n’t 
matter.” 

“ I shall take them to her next week, before 
your father returns ; a stranger must not inter- 
meddle with the joy of his home-coming.” 

And now, after all her worrying, it was all 


810 


RUE'S HELPS. 


taken out of her hands. Would she ever worry 
about anything again ? 

“ Mrs. Raymond has asked me to spend the 
winter in her home ; it is nearer the church, 
you know.” 

“ But will you like it as well as here ? ” asked 
Rue, doubtfully. 

“ I could not like any place as well as here,” 
he said, laughing at her tone. 

“ I am so sorry,” began Rue ; “ if father is 
willing — ” 

“ I know your father ; he will prefer to be 
alone with his family, as I shall, when I have 
my family about me again. Can’t you comfort 
yourself looking forward to the children at home 
and the new Parsonage ? ” 

“ No, I can’t,” said Rue. “ I don’t feel 
patient. I don’t want them to go. I ’m not 
good at all about it. Must they stay ever so 
long? ” 

“ Several years probably.” Mr. Ireton’s tone 
was as moved as her own. 

“ How selfish I am ! ” she exclaimed, looking 
up into his full eyes. “ I am forgetting all 
about you ! What will you do without them ? ” 


TO-MORROWS. 311 

“I shall run in to see them as often as 
possible. I have my work.” 

“ Yes, but your work is n’t the children. 
Must you let them go? Can’t you keep 
them ? ” 

“ I must let them go ; I cannot keep them 
My children must be educated. I am not a 
mother, I am only the best father that I know 
how to be. They will be as happy as ever 
after a while ; they will have each other.” 

Rue looked down at her book, the letters 
were blurred ; she tried to read a few words, 
to catch an idea, to steady herself. She could 
force the tears back, but she could not force 
herself to speak. 

“ I shall not be unhappy,” he said ; “ don’t 
think about me.” 

“ But you won’t be happy.” 

“ I shall not be anxious or cast down, I shall 
throw myself into my work. Have you done 
that hard thing yet?” 

“ There is no need ; my anxiety was not 
needed at all. I shall behave better next time ; 
it has been taken care of for me.” 

“ I am very glad,” he said heartily. “ I thank 


312 


RUE’S HELPS. 


you for comforting my little daughter to- 
day.” 

“ Then she told you ! Poor child, she was a 
little river of tears.” 

“ I thank you very much for trusting me your- 
self.” 

“ I can’t help that,” she said, laughing ; then 
she added, very gravely, “ Believing in some 
one keeps my heart from breaking. I think 
that God must be very sorry that fathers are 
not more pitiful and mothers more comfort- 
ing.” 

“ Fathers and mothers must draw their love 
from him.” 

Rue closed the book, and, rising, laid it upon 
the table that held the minister’s books. 

“ I shall miss your books very much ; I shall 
miss you, Mr. Ireton ; you have been very good 
to me. It chokes me to look forward to next 
winter. I shall be in the back side of the 
desert again.” 

“ Do you think that you will be rid of me ? ” 
he asked lightly. 

“ I hope not.” 

“ Geneva may be rid of me if it wills ; I have 


TO-MORROWS. 


313 


a call to a flourishing city church in the same 
city where my children will be. What do you 
think of that ? ” 

“ It will be lovely for you ! It will be de- 
lightful for you ! Do you want to go ? ” 

“ On some accounts I do, but I have not con- 
sidered it, — I shall not consider it. I want to 
stay in Geneva if my people wish me to stay. 
Do you wish me to stay ? ” 

“ You know I do,” said Rue, earnestly. “ I 
want everything to be as it used to be. It 
is very lonely without the dear old Parson- 
age.” 

“ Will you help me break it to the girls ? ” 

“ To-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes; they must be ready early in the 
week.” 

“ I shall be a sorry comforter. Good night.” 

“ Good night,” he said, taking her hand. 
“Rue, do you love the children better than 
anybody in the world ? ” 

“I ’m afraid I do,” she said seriously. “ I 
know that father and Paul would n’t like it, 
but they do not hurt me in any way, they 
always comfort me, and I ’m a little afraid of 


314 


RUE'S HELPS . 


father, and Paul holds himself off. It’s the 
most perfect love because it is all love. I have 
to trust grown people and not be afraid of 
them if I want to love them. I rest in the 
children ; they are a part of me, and no one else 
is a part of me. I know how to love children. 
I have n’t learned how to love grown people 
perfectly — yet. I suppose that I must learn to 
believe, and not be afraid, before I can love 
some grown person as restf ully as I love chil- 
dren.” 

“ Then you have a happiness before you, 
when you have grown to it, that will be next 
to the happiness of loving Jesus Christ.” 

“ I begin to feel that. I don’t know that I 
hope for it. If I ever do love with all my heart 
I hope that I shall die the day before that one 
tells me a lie.” 

“ I hope that you will, for your sake.” 

Rue ran up stairs ; the children were awake 
and talking. She went in to kiss them and bid 
them go to sleep so as to be ready for to- 
morrow. 

“ Every day has a to-morrow,” said Persis. 

Do you like to-morrows, Rue ? ” 


TO-MORROWS. 


315 


“ That ’s a deep question ; go to sleep and 
don’t talk poetry,” she answered, laughing as 
she closed the door. 

Did she like to-morrows ? She could not 
like this to-morrow; it was taking too much 
from her. 


IX. 


Paul’s chamber. 

To-morrow and to-morrow came ; the chil- 
dren listened obediently to their father’s plan. 
Persis cried like a baby, but Lou, as elder sister, 
was as courageous and comforting as a little 
elder sister in a story-book ; indeed, it was her 
greatest help, in bearing the separation, to think 
of herself as having something as hard to bear 
as the girls in story-books. And she would 
prove, by keeping her tears back and talking 
brightly to her father, by looking over Persis’s 
clothing and planning for her pleasures, that 
she was not thinking about herself, that she was 
as worthy being put into a book as Ellen Mont- 
gomery or the heroine of “ The Flower of the 
Family.” The only drawback was that there 
was no one to put her into a book. 

Rue did not have Persis’s comfort of crying 
like a baby, nor Lou’s spur to heroinism ; she 


PAUL'S CHAMBER . 31 7 

tried to be as good as she could be, which was 
sometimes not good at all. 

“ It seems so queer,” she said to Mr. Ireton, 
the evening that he returned after taking the chil- 
dren to the city, — “ it does seem so queer that 
we should have anything and then not have it.” 

“ Then you don’t believe that it is better to 
have loved and lost than never to have loved at 
all?” 

“ Not just now. I ’m afraid that I don’t 
know how to be submissive and patient. Oh, 
how I do want things that I can’t have ! ” 

Rue was afraid that it was very childish to 
talk so to the minister ; how could he under- 
stand about wanting things that he couldn’t 
have ? She would have been a trifle shocked, 
but wholly pleased, could she have known the 
heartache with which he was echoing her 
words : “ Oh, how I do want things that I can’t 
have ! ” 

She would have felt nearer to him if he could 
have seemed at this time in their friendship a 
little more human and rather less of a saint. 
She was inclined to hero-worship, and this mid- 
dle-aged, grave, sincere, and courteous gentle- 


318 


RUE'S HELPS. 


man, who was, beside, her friend and pastor, and 
the loving and lovable father of little girls, came 
more nearly to her ideal of saintship than any 
one whom she had ever known. It was pleas- 
ant, rather than otherwise, to stand in awe of 
him ; she supposed that she must feel towards 
him as Tryphena and Tryphosa and the beloved 
Persis felt toward St. Paul. She would hardly 
like it should he address a letter to her as St. 
John wrote to some one : “ The elder unto the 
elect lady,” but would she like it any better 
should he say — 

“ Mr. Ireton ! ” she looked up at him gravely, 
“ when you are wicked, how are you wicked? ” 

How he laughed, — such a human laugh, 
but with saintliness enough to make it very 
sweet. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Rue, “ but I ’ve 
been thinking about it ; we have summered 
and wintered together, and — I can’t decide how 
you are wicked.” 

“ My dear child ! have n’t I every temptation 
that every other saint and sinner has ? ” 

“ You are not like me,” she answered, doubt- 
fully. “ Suppose that I should know that you 


PAUL'S CHAMBER. 319 

were doing some very wicked thing, what 
should I do ? ” 

“ I shall, if God do not hinder and help.” 

“ Then he was not anything, after all, except- 
ing a sinner, of whom God was making a 
saint.” 

“ David and Paul and Martin Luther and 
Cowper and Robertson and Madame Guyon were 
nothing but that,” she said. aloud, answering her 
own unspoken thought. 

He laughed again and went off. Rue was a 
very old-fashioned girl, having more knowledge 
of the Bible and Sunday-school literature and 
religious story-books than of anything e*lse in 
the world outside of Geneva. She knew about 
God ; he was teaching her about himself, and 
she knew about some of his works through 
studying and through keeping her eyes open, 
and she knew something about his will, because 
her heart was prepared to receive it. 

The minister was persuaded to remain until 
the travellers should return. “ Don’t leave us 
all alone,” said Rue. 

“ We should n’t know wha»t to do without 
a gentleman in the house,” said Grace ; “ we 


320 


RUE'S HELPS. 


should have to keep the carving-knife in the 
flour-barrel for fear that a thief would come 
and find it and cut our heads off with it. 
Mother knew some one who did that.” 

“ Of course you will stay,” urged Mrs. 
Erskine ; “ they may be having another long 
voyage.” 

That they were having another long voyage 
they were all assured, for August passed with- 
out the daily expected arrival. If possible, the 
suspense was more trying than it had been in 
the spring. Mrs. Erskine repeated with copious 
additions all her bewailings of the spring ; Grace 
became fretful and sharp, declaring that she 
would never marry a sea-captain and go through 
so much for him ; Rue grew paler and paler 
every day, going into Paul’s chamber and 
touching it here and there, removing something, 
bringing in something, or exchanging one thing 
for another. The flowers faded day after day, 
and each day she threw them out and gathered 
fresh ones, setting the vase one day on the man- 
tel, another on the bureau. He had not seen 
flowers for so long ; how pleasant it would be 
to see them again ! 


PAUL'S CHAMBER. 


321 


She had framed two large photographs for 
him, one of herself and one of Grace, and hung 
them over his mantel ; she had worked a pair 
of slippers and placed them near his bed ; she 
had made a toilet-set for his bureau; she had 
brought several of her books and piled them on 
his table ; not a day passed that she did not open 
his windows to admit air and sunshine, or close 
them to keep out the rain. 

They were not watching for the mail, but 
they watched for the stage, they watched every 
carriage, they watched every passer-by, every 
figure that appeared- in the distance. Would 
they come from Madison or from Hanover ? At 
dinner they must have rice and raisins because 
Paul liked it, at tea they must have coffee for 
father ; at dinner-time they must keep the veg- 
etables hot, at tea-time the fire must not be 
allowed to go out. 

They would not lock the doors or close the 
windows until late at night, and the sound of a 
footfall after retiring would bring one or another 
to their feet, and one or another would call out, 
“Didn’t you hear somebody?” or, “Wasn’t 
that our gate ? ” 


21 


322 


RUE'S HELPS . 


On coining home from a drive the first question 
would be, “ Have they come ? ” The first glance 
towards the house would be for some evidence 
of unusual excitement, or to catch the sound of 
a voice. 

On Sunday they would say, “ Next Sunday 
they will be here;” on Monday, “Next Mon- 
day ; ” at night it was always “ To-morrow.” 

And Sunday, Monday, and to-morrow came 
and came again and again. 

“ I am losing my courage,” moaned Rue, one 
night ; “ I almost wish that there would n’t be 
any to-morrow.” 

She had thought losing the children an un- 
bearable trouble, but how light was that com- 
pared to this ! 

“ I wish that I could help you,” said Mr. Ire ton. 

“You do help me, you help me every minute, 
— if we could only be sure of something.” 

“We are sure that God is with them, — does 
n’t that help you ? ” 

“ That is all my help, that is all that keeps 
my heart from breaking. Oh, I want to go to 
heaven ! Oh, Mr. Ireton, I don’t know how to be 
good.” 


PAUL'S CHAMBER. 


323 


Mrs. Erskine was in the kitchen, stooping 
over the stove putting in wood to keep the tea- 
kettle boiling. Grace had gone up stairs to put 
down the windows, for a heavy shower was 
threatening. Rue closed the book she had 
been trying to lose herself in, and dropped her 
head in her hand. Mr. Ireton was walking 
up and down in her father’s fashion, not sing- 
ing in her father’s fashion, but very grave and 
troubled when Rue was not looking towards 
him. 

The gate swung to ; there was a step on the 
brick walk, a step on the piazza, — a slow, fal- 
tering step, not Paul’s step, or her father’s. 

“ It may be a tramp,” said Rue. 

The knob of the door turned. Mr. Ireton 
moved to the door, and opened it. 

“ O father ! father ! ” cried Rue, springing 
into his arms. 

A wild, haggard, careworn face bent over 
her ; trembling arms infolded her ; dry, hot 
lips, from which no word came, were pressed 
close to her cheek. 

“ O father ! where ’s Paul ? ” 

“ Paul ! Paul ! ” he repeated unsteadily. 


324 


RUE'S HELPS. 


Grace had heard the door open and ran down 
stairs. Mrs. Erskine came in excited and full 
of talk. 

“ Where ’s Paul ? ” she asked. “ Why, father, 
how dreadfully you look ! ” 

“ Is n’t Paul here ? ” asked Grace. 

“ No, not yet,” said her father ; “ he ’s — com- 
ing — I mean — he is n’t well — he ’s better. 
O mother ! mother ! ” trying to catch his wife 
in his arms. Mr. Ireton’s arms were about him. 
Rue drew the large rocker towards them, and 
Mr. Ireton placed him in it. 

“ I have lost my ship, — it ’s in the bottom of 
the sea ! And Paul, — Paul, — ” he burst into 
loud weeping, — “Paul is buried in England. 
We were almost home when the ship went 
down ; an Englishman bound to Liverpool took 
us off, all of us, safe and well. Paul was sick ; 
he died before we got to Liverpool. I came by 
a steamer, I could come as quick as a letter. O 
mother, mother ! ” He clung to his wife, weep- 
ing aloud. Grace and Rue hung over him, 
not speaking a word, with the tears showering 
down their faces. 

“ Oh, father, we have you ,” said Rue, choking 
through her sobs, “ and you have us.” 


PAUL'S CHAMBER. 


325 


“You must have something to eat and drink,” 
said Mrs. Erskine, releasing herself from his 
arms. “ Grace, set the table, and I ’ll make a 
cup of coffee.” 

Rue crept into her father’s arms, clinging to 
him and kissing him. “ Are you well ? Have 
you been strong ? Don’t think about anything, 
only that you are home ! Did Paul — was 
he—” 

“ He was not sick long, — a fever, I guess it 
was. He was as brave as a man, and worked 
like a giant. He did n’t give out till we were 
all saved, and then the fever took him down. He 
was delirious most of the time ; he talked about 
home always and about Rue, it was Rue more 
than anybody. He wanted you to bring him 
water. But he ’s safe, he ’s safe, he ’s gone 
home. O my dear boy ! ” 

Grace moved slowly, setting the table care- 
fully, listening with full eyes and throat filled 
with sobs. Mrs. Erskine bustled about, order- 
ing Grace to do this and that with a husky 
voice. Rue stroked her father’s face and asked 
questions. Her father’s voice became clearer 
every moment ; he had no power to suppress the 


326 


RUE’S HELPS. 


tears, but he could speak easily of Paul and of 
the three days on the wreck. 

“Do eat something, father,” pleaded Mrs. 
Erskine. 

“ Oh, mother, I can’t eat.” 

“Yes, you can,” said Rue, slipping out of 
his arms. “ Paul would n’t like for you not to 
eat.” 

While he was taking his coffee, with her 
mother at one side of him and Grace standing 
at the other, Rue went softly out and up stairs 
to Paul’s room. The windows were closed; 
there was not one ray of light, for the storm 
was almost upon them. She groped her way to 
the bedstead and stood leaning over the foot- 
board ; the room was sweet with the clover that 
she had picked for Paul that day. 

“ Rue, Rue ! ” cried her mother’s anxious 
voice at the foot of the stairs, “ there ’s a ter- 
rible storm coming up. Don’t stay up there, 
come down till it ’s over. Where ’s Mr. Ire- 
ton ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said Rue, closing Paul’s 
door softly, as softly as if he were sleeping 
within. 


PAUL'S CHAMBER. 327 

Mr. Ireton was behind her a moment after- 
ward, as she passed down stairs. 

“ ‘ I go to prepare a place for you.’ In his 
Father’s house he has made ready a room for 
Paul. He is glad to be in that room to-night. 
Can’t you be willing to have him in that room 
instead of the one that you had made ready ? ” 

He laid his hand over hers as hers rested upon 
the stair-railing. She stood still, trembling. 
“ I ’m so glad that father is safe ; I’m so sorry 
for all that he has suffered ; I ’m so glad that he 
and Paul understood each other better ; I can 
be glad that Paul is in that place.” 

“ Your love, your little love, prepared that 
room, but oh the love, the great, unchanging 
love, that prepared the home where he is to- 
night. Does that love comfort you, dear?” 

“Yes,” said Rue, through soft tears. 

The storm came, the heaviest of the season ; 
they gathered in the dining-room, Rue held 
close in her father’s arms, her mother and Grace 
one on either side of him, and Mr. Ireton near 
them on the lounge. 

“ I wish that Lou and Persis were here,” 
said Rue. “ I am glad they can be together.” 


328 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ You have said ‘ glad 9 many times to-night,” 
said Mr. Ireton. 

“ I am glad,” she answered ; “ oh, father, it 
is so blessed to have you safe at home.” 

About midnight the storm ceased, the moon 
shone out, the frogs began to croak. 

“ Let us pray and then go to rest,” said Cap- 
tain Erskine. “ Mr. Ireton, will you pray with 
us.” 

“ Our Father, we thank thee that Jesus has 
gone to prepare a home for us all,” the min- 
ister began. After that, Rue could listen no 


X. 


UP THE LANE. 

Grace was one of those people who could 
talk about anything ; she and her mother were 
alike in this. For a week after their knowledge 
of Paul’s death, these two talked about him 
incessantly, speculating as to everything he 
thought, said, or did, — how homesick he must 
have been, how he must have longed to get 
home to die, how glad they were that he was not 
buried in the sea. Did he look natural, or had 
he changed ? They would like to have looked 
upon him after he was dead. How thoughtful 
he was to buy them all something in every 
new place, and what should they do with his 
clothing ? 

“Rue,” — Rue was passing through the din- 
ing-room, wrapped in her shawl of white Shet- 
land wool, with her broad hat, and a book 
in her hand ; the book was the first one that 


330 


RUE'S HELPS. 


she had chanced to see in passing through 
the rooms, — The Memoirs of Sara Coleridge. 
“ Rue,” said her mother, again, “ what shall 
we do with Paul’s boots? Your father don’t 
seem to like to talk about his things.” 

“ Anything,” said Rue. “ It does n’t matter.” 

“ I suppose that you will want all his stereo- 
scopic views and curiosities,” said Grace. 

“I don’t care,” said Rue, “it doesn’t mat- 
ter. Do anything you like.” 

“ I think that I ’ll keep that white silk 
handkerchief,” said Mrs. Erskine ; “it has a 
very pretty pink border. Perhaps you don’t 
like the idea of using dead people’s things, 
Rue.” 

Rue’s heart shivered. Was Paul “ dead peo- 
ple ” to his own mother ? 

“ I am going up the lane,” she said ; “ tell 
father if he asks for me. I may go up to the 
woods.” 

“ Father has gone to Hanover,” said Mrs. 
Erskine ; “ he wanted me to go with him, but it 
does make me so tired to ride, and I had that 
basket of tomatoes to see to.” 

Up the lane was the children’s favorite walk, 


UP THE LANE. 


331 


up the lane as far as the woods ; there was 
a pile of old rails upon one side of the lane, 
where last summer they had discovered “ the 
loveliest place to study in,” for two rails formed 
the seat, another two rails the back of the seat, 
and a rail below was placed there just for a foot- 
stool. The sunlight streamed across the mown 
fields, up towards the woods, it was shady, and 
she knew a place where the ferns grew and wild 
blackberries, and near the hickory-trees stood 
a rock with a flat surface, upon which the 
children had often climbed ; the rock was covered 
with dark spots, and the children had said that 
it was a plum-pudding stone. 

She could read Sara Coleridge perched up on 
that stone as well as anywhere, and she wanted 
some ferns for her rockery, and Grace wanted 
to know if the blackberries were all gone ; be- 
side, she could catch the first glimpse of the top- 
wagon and the white horse from the top of the 
rock. She might as well be doing this as any- 
thing else. She loved her mother and Grace, 
of course, but she did not always love their 
companionship; very often their presence was 
not companionship at all, there was no union 


832 


RUE'S HELPS. 


or communion about their being together. Did 
they feel a lack in her also? Did they wish 
that she could care more for some of the things 
they cared about? 

Mr. Ireton had left them a week since. He 
had been busy and had called but once. “ You 
have your father now,” he had said to her, and 
she had said nothing at all ; how could she say 
that she wanted him, beside ! Clearly, in grow- 
ing older and in growing wiser, Rue had not 
learned not to “ want things ; ” and it was 
rather harder to want people than to want 
things. She did not know whether she missed 
Paul or not; the seventeen months of his ab- 
sence had made this longer absence a more 
natural thing. She could not write to him now; 
she could not think of him on board the ship ; 
she could not think of him as understanding and 
loving their father better, — loving because un- 
derstanding and understanding because loving. 
She could not think of him in Liverpool or 
Calcutta or Rangoon, at Antwerp or on the 
sea ; above all, she could not think of him lying 
alone in English ground. She could not think 
of him as anywhere else than in that mansion 


UP THE LANE. 


333 


which Jesus had made ready for him ; he could 
not have her picture or Grace’s picture there, 
but might he not remember their faces? Noth- 
ing but Christ is between us and our friends 
who are with him, Mr. Ire ton had said last 
Sunday ; therefore she did not think of one and 
then the other, but of both together, Christ and 
Paul ; and if they were both together, were 
they not both near her ? Paul had had several 
photographs taken for her, and had written her 
name and the date of the day when they were 
taken upon them. On one he had scribbled 
“ Home, sweet home ; ” on another, “ Look aloft.” 
She had laid them away; some day she could 
bear to look at them. How glad, how more 
than glad, she was now, that she had prayed for 
him that night that she had found him weeping ! 

But the tears were coming, and she was not 
strong enough for tears. The plum-pudding 
stone was in sight. She hurried towards it, 
climbed upon it, settled herself comfortably, and 
looked around. Down towards the farm-house 
how busy and peaceful it was ! The smoke was 
curling from the kitchen chimney. Her mother 
must be pickling and canning ; if she were not 


334 


RUE’S HELPS. 


pickling and canning, what else could she 
be doing? Grace was making her “mourn- 
ing.” Rue had declared that she would not wear 
mourning. She knew that Paul wouldn’t like 
it. He always liked her bright ribbons, and the 
soft, pale shades of her dresses. Her mother 
had looked shocked, and exclaimed, “ What will 
people think?” every time she had alluded to it 
since, but her father had looked pleased. 

“ Mother and Grace can do as they like,” he 
had said; “you and I will be as happy as we 
can about him.” 

Grace was working cheerfully at her mourn- 
ing ; if she were not doing that, what would she 
be doing? And if she herself were not sitting 
up high on a rock, looking around, what would 
she be doing ? 

“ Oh, my lonely winter ! my long, lonely win- 
ter ! ” she said aloud. 

But the tears were coming again, for herself 
this time. She hastily opened her book and 
read : “ Such are the chief historical events of 
my little life up to nine years of age. But can 
I in any degree trace what being I was then, — 
what relation my then being held to my ma- 
turer self?” 


UP THE LANE. 


335 


“ My childhood held a relation to my maturer 
self,” she mused. “I do want to understand 
myself,” she added aloud. 

“ What for ? ” asked Mr. Ireton’s voice be- 
hind her. 

“ So that I may know how to use myself,” 
she replied in a perfectly undisturbed tone. 
Mr. Ireton could not come upon her suddenly. 
Of late his presence had been ever with her, not 
consciously, however ; perhaps I should rather 
have said, the influence of his presence. 

“ I have been using myself,” he said lightly ; 
“ I came across the fields. I have been half- 
way to Hanover. I walked over there to marry 
a couple. This morning early a young man, a 
laborer, came to me and asked me what I would 
marry him for. I hesitated about setting a price, 
but he insisted, and I gave him a small sum, 
thinking that if he wished to make the bride a 
wedding-present I would n’t keep him from it 
by overtaxing his purse. He could not come 
for me nor come to be married, and as I have no 
horse, I had to set out on my errand of mercy on 
foot. It has been hot and dusty all day, and I 
expect, as Lou would say, that I hated to go. 


336 


RUE'S HELPS. 


I put a small volume, bound in white, lettered 
and edged with gilt, in my pocket for the bride, 
— have you seen one? — “Advice to Married 
People.” It contains the certificate published by 
the Tract Society. In due time, dusty and heated, 
I found the house, and found the bride and the 
bridegroom, and in five minutes they were mar- 
ried according to the laws of the State. Kisses 
and congratulations followed, and all went as 
merry as a marriage bell, — all but the minister’s 
fee, for the bridegroom took me aside and whis- 
pered that he had been all day trying to collect 
the sum I had named, or to borrow it, and could 
not succeed ; so I marched back again, and they 
are married, and I ’ve lost the best part of a 
working-day. I preached a funeral sermon this 
morning, and to-night is lecture-night. Would 
you like to be a country minister ? ” 

“You have made two people happy,” said 
Rue. “ Will you climb up here and rest ? ” 

“ The children called this rock your throne. 
Are you willing to share your throne ? ” he 
asked, making his way up to her side. 

“ With some one who can reign more wisely 
than I.” 


UP THE LANE. 


337 


“ What are you studying about ? ” 

“ The vegetable, mineral, and animal king- 
doms, each in turn.” 

“ I went into school the other day, and asked 
the children the names of the kingdoms, and 
Sophie Johns answered, ‘Vegetable, mineral, 
animal, and the kingdom of Heaven.’ ” 

Rue laughed, and said that she must tell 
Sophie’s mother. 

“ Can you tell me the difference between the 
kingdoms ? ” 

“I suppose I can. Let me see, — no, I can’t. 
Minerals do not breathe.” 

“ The division of nature into three kingdoms 
is very ancient. Minerals are destitute of life ; 
they increase by the accumulation of new par- 
ticles. Vegetables grow, produce seeds, which 
contain the elements of future plants like them- 
selves, and then die. Animals unite to the 
properties of vegetables the feeling of their own 
existence. Linnaeus said, — you know Linnaeus, 
— ‘ Stones grow, vegetables grow and live ; 
animals grow, live, and feel.’ But none of the 
wise men know where sensation ceases nor 
where it begins.” 


338 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ I wish that I knew all about such things,” 
said Rue, earnestly. “ Paul always liked Nat- 
ural History. I want to know all about the 
animals that have backbones and those that 
have n’t backbones.” 

“ V ertebral and avertebral ; you should speak 
scientifically.” 

“ I don’t know anything — scientifically,” 
she almost sighed. “ I want to begin to study 
hard. I don’t want Lou and Persis to come 
home finished little scholars, and find me rude 
and uncouth and ignorant ; I want to use all of 
myself. There is an unexplored kingdom in 
my mind that belongs to the order backbone- 
less. What a backbone knowledge is ! What 
are zoophytes ? I saw the word yesterday, and 
I was too lonely to look it up alone.” 

“Zoophytes are animal plants, the lowest 
beings in the animal kingdom. Some of the 
orders of this class have neither heart, brains, 
nerves, nor any apparent means of breathing. 
Can you think of some animal plants ? ” 

“ Coral and sponges. I don’t know any 
other.” 

“ Yes, corals are fixed to rocks. Some of the 


UP THE LANE. 


339 


zoophytes are fixed by a kind of root to the 
bottom of the sea ; the sea-nettle is carried about 
by the motion of the waters, so also are the sea- 
daisy, the sea-marigold, the sea-carnation.” 

“Father will like to learn about them ; I’ll 
learn and talk them to him. The winter will 
seem long to him, too. Do you know all about 
sponges? ” 

“ I don’t ‘know’ all about anything; least of 
all about the thing nearest to me — ” 

“ That thing is Rue Erskine just now,” said 
Rue. 

“ Not only just now, but always,” said he so 
gravely that Rue repeated the words to herself ; 
but they were so mixed up with sponges and 
sea-carnation and sea-marigold that they held no 
clear meaning, no meaning clear enough to be 
replied to. 

“Haven’t sponges sensation?” she asked 
somewhat confusedly. 

“ When touched, it discovers a slight sensa- 
tion, the only evidence of life that it manifests. 
A sponge has been found in the East Indies in 
the form of a cup, capable of containing ten 
gallons of water.” 


340 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“ Is n't that wonderful? And it has about as 
much sensation as a sensitive plant, I sup- 
pose/’ 

“ The dionoea, a plant, will suddenly close its 
leaves over the insect which touches it ; the 
leaves of plants follow the direction of the light, 
as you know ; the seed of a plant, in whatever 
situation it may be placed in the earth, always 
sends its roots downward and its stem upward ; 
is n’t this an appearance of sensation and in- 
stinct, even more than in the zoophytes? Sup- 
pose you find out all the marks of distinction 
between animals and plants, and write them out 
for me, and we ’ll have a talk about it. Will 
you like that ? ” 

“ Oh, thank you, yes. I was feeling like a 
sea-daisy, as if I were being carried about by 
the motion of the waters, without any will of my 
own. I do want to grow fixed to a rock. I get 
worried and fretted over things, and I do not 
always feel patient ; it will do me so much good 
to learn about these little things that God is 
thinking about.” 

“ Then through the kingdoms — rather, in the 
kingdoms — we will find that God reigns, and so 


UP THE LANE. 341 

find his kingdom in all. I must tell Sophie 
that.” 

“ And I must tell Lou about it. Have you 
a letter from Mrs. Willey er? I wrote to her last 
night.” 

He drew from an inner pocket a large en- 
velope, containing many sheets of thin note- 
paper. “ There is something for us all. I can’t 
stay to talk it over, for I must be home before 
tea. Now that she understands the language, 
she has accepted the principalship of that girls’ 
school, and is as joyful over her dozen little girls 
as only Gertrude Willever can be.” 

“ But the whole dozen are not Lou and Per- 
sis,” said Rue, holding the letter tightly. She 
would have kissed it had she been alone. 

“ She has sent you some flower-seeds, — it is 
a real woman’s letter. Are you ready to go down 
the lane ? ” 

Going down the lane was pleasanter than 
coming up the lane. A breath of fresh air had 
blown through her brain, brushing out several 
disagreeable impressions that had not dared to 
form themselves into thoughts ; it was easier, 
after that, to hear her mother talk about can- 


342 


' RUE'S HELPS. 


ning and pickling, as if they comprised all the 
duties and happiness of life, and easier to watch 
Grace as she worked upon her black goods, and 
talked about the width of crape folds ; it was not 
even so very hard to make the sleeves and trim 
them with the crape. Her father had brightened 
when he saw her, and told her, with all his old 
interest in their talks, all that he knew about 
the nautilus and icebergs and coral and sponges. 
Parts of Mrs. Willever’s letter she read aloud. 
Grace interrupted once to ask where the black 
cord was, and Mrs. Erskine asked Rue to be 
sure to ask her to write about everything that 
she had to eat. Her father listened with great 
interest, and told her about the missionaries 
that he and Paul had visited in Rangoon. 

“ She is in Turkey, is she ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, she heard the cry from Macedonia,” 
said Rue. “ I think that she must have heard it 
as clearly as St. Paul did. How happy it must 
be to obey when one hears a clear call!” she 
added almost with a sigh. 

It had always been hard for her, with her rest- 
less spirit, to be still enough to hear God speak. 

“ Moses had a clear call,” replied her father, 


UP THE LANE. 


343 


“when he turned aside to see the burning 
bush.” 

“ But he had to turn aside,” said Rue, 
quickly. “ Perhaps we cannot hear when we 
keep in the noise, or keep full of our own 
business.” 

“ Why, child, what is it you wish to hear?” 
inquired her mother. “ Do you want to be sent 
out into the world to do some wild thing ? ” 

“No, indeed. I am the last one to wish for 
that, or to do that ; but I would like to have a 
clear call about doing the little things in my 
own life. I suppose that Dorcas and Lydia and 
Hannah and Elizabeth and the mother of Moses 
all had clear calls, and what wild things did 
they do?” 

“ What do you mean by a ‘ clear call ’ ? ” ques- 
tioned Grace, cutting a buttonhole in the waist 
of the dress that she was at work upon. 

“ Oh, something cut out for me as plainly — 
so far and no farther ; just here, no lower, no 
higher — as that buttonhole is cut out for the 
twist and the needle and your fingers.” 

“ But I cut the buttonhole myself,” laughed 
Grace; “ can’t you cut your own buttonholes ? ” 


344 


RUE'S HELPS. 


“No, I’m afraid they will not be cut in the 
right place,” replied Rue, seriously. “ I dare 
not cut until I have a command and a pattern. 
I don’t think that I would mind building a 
tabernacle, if I could go up in the mount and 
get a pattern, as Moses did.” 

“ You can do that easy enough,” said her 
father, quickly ; “ find everything that God says 
to women and about women, and take that for a 
pattern.” 

“ Oh, father, that ’s lovely ! ” cried Rue, slip- 
ping the thin sheets of Mrs. Willever’s letter 
into the envelope. “ That ’s just what I will 
do. And I ’ll write it out and read it in the 
next ladies’ prayer-meeting. That’s a pattern 
found in the mount ; I shall not be afraid to 
build after that.” 

“ Whom will you choose to be like ? ” asked 
Grace. 

“Priscilla,” said Rue, gravely; “she and 
Aquila must have had such good times working 
together. Don’t you remember St. Paul wrote 
to the Romans, ‘ Greet Priscilla and Aquila, my 
helpers in Christ Jesus ’ ? I would like to take 
her for a pattern.” 


UP THE LANE. 


345 


“ You fly pretty high, child,” said her father. 
“ Why did n’t you choose to be Dorcas making 
coats ? ” 

“ Because I had to be sincere, and she is the 
pattern that I choose in my heart. She did not 
have an easy time, either, for she was ready to 
lay down her life to save Paul. She must have 
been very modest and lovely and unselfish as 
well as bright for Paul to admire her so and to 
call her his helper ; he does n’t hold Aquila over 
her head, even if he do believe so fervently 
that the man is the head of the woman. I 
think he liked Priscilla ; I expect that she was 
a good housekeeper as^ well as Bible-teacher. 
St. Paul speaks of the church that was in their 
house. Perhaps when he wrote to wives he had 
her in his mind as a pattern.” 

“ But where ’s Aquila ? ” asked Grace, mis- 
chievously. 

But Rue would not be teased. 

“ I suppose God found them for each other ; 
I am sure he did if he had work for them to 
do together.” 

“ I wish that St. Paul had had a Priscilla too,” 
said Captain Erskine ; “don’t you, mother? ” 


346 


RUE’S HELPS . 


“ I suppose that he did n’t want one,” replied 
Mrs. Erskine. 

“ Surely he did n’t,” said Rue, rising to light 
her bedroom candle ; “ one would surely have 
been given to him if he had.” 

Rue went up stairs, thinking to herself, “ I *d 
rather be Priscilla than a sea-daisy ; I like to 
think that God made both. The daisy did not 
choose, neither did Priscilla choose ; but God 
made them both after the pattern in his own 
heart.” 

“ You would rather be Dorcas, would n’t 
you?” Captain Erskine said to Grace as Rue 
went out. 

“ Yes, I ’m willing to be Dorcas ; people 
loved her, and I want to be loved.” 

“ I ask nothing better for my girls than that 
they may be like Priscilla and Dorcas,” said he ; 
“ what do you think, mother ? ” 

“ I think that it ’s bedtime, and that Grace 
ought n’t to be straining her eyes over that 
black work.” 


XI. 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 

It seemed strange to Rue that Paul’s death 
made so little change in home affairs. It almost 
seemed as if it made no difference at all. It 
surely could not be because he had been so 
little, or nothing at all, to them. 

Their father walked up and down in the 
dining-room after tea as he had done in the 
years before, singing in couplets over and over, 

“ Oh, may my heart in tune be found, 

Like David’s harp of solemn sound,” 

and, 

“ Must I be carried to the skies 
On flowery beds of ease ? ” 

The careworn look was passing away from 
his countenance, the nervous strain was wear- 
ing away from his eyes, the quick sharpness 
was giving way to an enforced patience in the 
tones of his voice ; he had even laughed as 


348 


RUE'S HELPS. 


heartily as any of them the day that he met the 
party of freeholders on the bridge near the 
house when they were consulting about build- 
ing a new bridge. Rue knew that he did not 
forget, that the days upon the wreck and the 
days and nights afterward spent at the side of 
Paul’s berth were ever present in his heart, if 
not always in his mind. 

Their mother had changed in several ways ; 
her manner towards their father was more gentle, 
— not gentle yet, but more gentle. It might 
be that she could never become gentle or sweet ; 
she was not tender, she never could be that ; 
but she did not fuss or fret over small matters 
as often as before ; she oftener spoke of their 
comforts, and how much they had to be thank- 
ful for, and when she looked forward to old age 
it was almost as if it might be made a pleasant 
time in their lives. Her presence could not yet 
bring sunshine, but it did not so often bring a 
cloud. She was learning at last — all her les- 
sons had been learned when school was almost 
done — that she herself, with her thankless 
heart, had been the cause of the greater part of 
her own troubles ; only she herself could make 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 349 

her own bitter waters sweet. She did not put 
the matter thus to herself ; she had not learned 
to bear even her own accusing. She simply felt 
that she was happier when she did not fuss and 
fret ; moreover, trouble had come, and it might 
be that it was a judgment upon herself for not 
hindering her husband from going to sea again, 
for she could have hindered and kept him at 
home simply by making the best of things. 

It was rather hard to say that the wood might 
do very well for the kitchen stove when it was 
cut half an inch longer than she preferred, and 
altogether more green than she liked; and it 
required much self-command to declare that the 
flour made of their wheat was almost as white 
as the last barrel they bought; but she did 
conquer herself, and glowed with self-approval 
for days afterward; and in the height of her 
self-approval said to her husband that she had 
dressed a great deal better since her marriage 
than before. 

To Rue these little things were a matter of 
thankfulness. Her father could not forget about 
the wet wood and the dark flour in studying 
about zoophytes and in looking up the roots of 


350 RUE'S HELPS. 

words. He could not shake himself free from 
the life-long habit of looking at life through his 
wife’s eyes ; the change could not be in himself, 
it must be in her ; therefore Rue, in the autumn 
days of in-door work and study, and out-door 
musings and study and talks, was very glad and 
very thankful for the sweetened waters. If 
Auntie and Paul could know! But they did 
know that God was doing his will in their 
earthly home, and was not that enough? But 
Auntie would like to know that Rue’s mother 
sometimes read a chapter in the Bible on week- 
days as well as on Sundays, and that she did 
not openly fidget when a long chapter was read 
at morning family prayer. 

There was no outward change in Grace; 
before two months after her father’s return, she 
was as merry as a lark, planning her winter’s 
pleasures in Boston, and absorbed in preparing 
her wardrobe. Paul had not been many things 
in his elder sister’s life beside an interruption. 
She was proud of him because he was bright 
and handsome ; still he was a troublesome 
younger brother who had been a long time in 
growing up. 


GENEVA AND SAMOKO V. 


351 


Week-days and Sundaj^s, all through the au- 
tumn, life ran on in the unbroken routine of 
the years ago ; the same food was placed on the 
table, the same work done in-doors, the same 
work done out-of-doors, only that now a neigh- 
bor’s boy brought in the wood and the cobs 
for Rue’s fire, and a strange voice called to the 
cows when driving them down to the brook. 
They did not allude to Paul, they seldom spoke 
his name ; everything w*as just the same, only 
Paul was gone. Rue could not look across the 
fields to watch the boy at the fall ploughing; 
she could not pass the woodshed when the 
sound of axe or saw was within ; when the 
top-wagon drove into the yard she could not 
raise her eyes to see only her father spring out 
and throw the reins over the horses’ backs. 

Still these days that were alike and not alike 
were changed nevertheless ; they were changed 
to Rue. A change wdthin one’s self is all 
that one needs to make changes without one’s 
self. Even the fire on the hearth was not the 
same to her. Of course, no two fires are ever 
alike, as no two sunsets are ; but this unlikeness 
was not like the unlikeness of two years ago. 


352 


RUE'S HELPS. 


The old, harassed, alone feelings never came 
back. The feeling of striving and grasping had 
been taken from her. Prayer was no longer 
a wrestling, but a sweet, satisfied resting in 
the promises. 

She had learned in some indefinable way 
not only how to pray, but what to pray for. 
“Whatever God gives you in a promise be 
sure to send back to him in a prayer,” Mr. Ire- 
ton had quoted to her from Matthew Henry. 
And so, sending back to him the promises, 
she had received forgiveness of sin, the 
knowledge of his will, and his presence in her 
heart. She had been restless until she had 
found rest in him. 

This restfulness was the foundation of her 
changes, — the foundation of the unchangeable 
things in her life. There was another con- 
sciousness within her, — the consciousness of 
another human element ; wherefore it was she 
could not make herself aware. There was no 
new human companionship, the old friends were 
the only new friends ; still there was a sense 
of nearness to some happiness, if not the hap- 
piness itself, — a stir, a glow, that never used to 
be, — and this without Auntie and Paul. 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 353 

She questioned herself, then laughed and let 
the question go ; would she analyze her heart- 
beats? Perhaps her father, in set religious 
phrasing, would have explained it to her as the 
more perfect realization of the presence of the 
Holy Spirit. That was true, she recognized 
that, and gave thanks ; but there was some- 
thing beside, — something that she could grasp 
and hold, something that was a part of this 
higher joy, something that she could not sepa- 
rate from it, something that did not make the 
higher joy any less, but something that was 
made holier, more inspiriting, by the conscious- 
ness that God knew about it, and had given it 
to her. This other happiness, if she could think 
of it as a thing beside her chief joy, was real, 
near, ever-abiding. Was it that the love of God 
was speaking to her through human lips, shining 
down upon her through human eyes, touching 
her through human hands? Was he revealing 
his love to her and care over her in the way 
that she could best receive it, in the way that 
he had made her ready to receive it ? 

Her mother, her father, and Grace were be- 
coming doubly precious to her. There was no 
23 4 


354 


RUE'S HELPS. 


home like the old, rough farm-house ; no place 
in the wide world like little Geneva, over which 
the sun set as it had never set anywhere else. 

The winter set in early ; before Christmas there 
were several long snow-storms ; in January there 
were four stormy Sundays, — four Sundays in 
succession in which she could not attend church 
or Sunday school. Perhaps these Sundays might 
have been gloomy days had she not looked for- 
ward all day, and fallen asleep at night, with 
the hope that on Monday a part of the church 
service would come to her, — the part of the 
church that brought the sermon. Every Monday 
when he felt “Mondayish,” the minister came 
to Rue “ to get rested,” and it so chanced that 
he felt Mondayish every Monday afternoon 
through this long, stormy winter. She loved to 
be called restful ; she would have chosen to be that 
to him rather than anything else, — to him or to 
any one, but to him first of all and most of all, 
because, being a hard worker, he needed to be 
rested more than any one she knew. How she 
could be a rest to him she could not understand. 
He told her that she was a rest simply by being 
herself, and she accepted it, as she did some other 


GENEVA AND SAMONOV. 355 

truths in her life, without seeking to under- 
stand. She smiled all to herself sometimes 
when she braided her hair or fastened a knot 
of pale blue velvet at her throat or among her 
braids, wondering if the shade of her hair were 
restful, or the shade of the velvet. Of course, 
she could not read the peace in her happy eyes, 
she could not catch the flash and the flush 
of merriment that her own quick words often 
brought, she could not discern the heart at 
leisure from itself that graced her attitudes and 
motions, she could not feel the history and 
prophecy in her own face ; she could not know 
that womanliness is woman’s greatest, sweetest, 
and most enduring attraction, that forgetfulness 
of self is the surest way of holding hearts ; so 
very humble was she in her estimate of herself 
that she wondered and wondered why he could 
be so drawn to her, and in her humility gave 
God, the giver, most hearty thanks. 

These Monday afternoons were most informal. 

■ Mr. Ireton entered without knocking, and if 
Rue were not in one room he found her in 
another ; sometimes it would be in the kitchen 
or dining-room, and sometimes in the workshop 


356 


RUE'S HELPS. 


or granary, for she had a way of following her 
father about. 

Captain Erskine usually came in for his share 
of the talk while Rue was setting the supper- 
table ; and Mrs. Erskine always had her bits of 
talk by snatches, coming in and going out half 
a dozen times in the course of the afternoon. 

Rue sewed very often, and sometimes read 
aloud, or wrote a letter. They always had let- 
ters to talk over, for Mrs. Willever and the 
children were excellent correspondents. And 
then there was all the parish to think about and 
talk about. Silent Rue began to think that she 
was growing to be a talker. 

That talk on the plum-pudding stone had 
formed the first in a series of natural history 
lessons. Mr. Ireton brought her books, and 
whenever he came on any other day than Mon- 
day, they had a lesson in natural history. Be- 
fore spring the other day than Monday occurred 
every week ; Monday was his day, the other 
day was her day. In the lessons upon the hab- 
itation of plants she became very much inter- 
ested ; she collected her knowledge, and with 
Mr. Ireton’s suggestions and her own thoughts 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 357 

wrote what she called a talk about the homes of 
the plants, and invited her boys to spend the 
evening with her and listen to it. Will Adams 
was so enthusiastic over it that he persuaded 
her to- promise that she would write a talk for 
them about something else. Mr. Ireton chose 
“ Pen, Ink, and Paper ” for her topic, and this 
the boys found so interesting that three even- 
ings were filled with it, and then they declared 
that they were not half through. 

If this life of work and study were at the 
back side of the desert, what a delightful rest- 
ing-place, preparing-place, this back side of the 
desert must be ! Had she not found her work ? 
Was God not using all of herself that she had 
made ready for his using ? Refreshed and 
strengthened, was she not ready to listen to all 
that he might will to speak to her? Through 
Marah and past Elim, had she not come to the 
foot of the mount? And had he not spoken, 
and was not her work with her every day ? 

Grace had gone to Boston before Christmas, 
declaring that she could not endure a winter at 
home. 

“ Rue can endure,” her father had said in an 


358 


RUE'S HELPS . 


injured tone; “she will stay with her old father 
and mother.” 

“ Oh, Rue can endure anything,” said Grace ; 
“ all she wants to do is to study and look out of 
the window. Last night she saw a green and 
lavender sunset, with silver light all over it, and 
another time she called me to see the sunset 
through the falling snow. Nothing shuts her 
in, — and then she has Aquila.” 

“ Grace, you sha’n’t tease her,” said their 
father. 

“ Oh, she does n’t know when she is teased ! 
I always said that she was a field-daisy.” 

Rue did not feel teased; she was glad for 
Grace to go away to a livelier life, if she could 
not endure being at home. She was content, — 
more than content, — satisfied, to be at home, 
satisfied with being what she was to them all, 
satisfied with doing what she could for them 
all. Like the women that had hurried to the 
sepulchre with ointments that the risen Lord had 
no need of, she had hastened to do a work for 
him that he had not accepted. But, like their 
work, hers had been a preparation ; her work 
had brought her to him, and he had sent her on 


GENEVA AND S A MO NOV. 359 

his own errand. And his own errand was so 
much more blessed than her self-chosen one. 

She felt as if she would like to talk with this 
Mary, who had stood without at the sepulchre, 
weeping. 

Mrs. Willever’s letters were a happiness and a 
help not only to Rue, but to the minister and to 
many friends in Geneva. Rue read extracts from 
them at the Tuesday afternoon prayer-meetings, 
and often and often the voices which prayed 
for the friend far away were choked with tears. 
Such extracts as the following were listened to 
eagerly, and formed the topic of conversation 
around many tea-tables on Tuesday evenings. 

“ There are four or five Ladies’ Missionary 
Societies that expect me to correspond with 
them regularly, and many others who wish me 
to write. It is something of a trial to write to 
strangers, even although I am assured that their 
hearts are in my work. The last ‘Life and 
Light ’ was quite a surprise to me ; I found in 
it a letter of mine that I did not dream of writ- 
ing for publication. That is a trial to me, for 
I cannot possibly take the time to write well. 
I always write in a hurry ; I expect that I for- 


360 


RUE'S HELPS. 


get oftentimes a favorite quotation of your dom- 
inie’s, 4 He that believeth shall not make haste.’ 
But, oh, how short the days are, and how much 
work there is to be done ! Lou and Persis must 
never think of being lazy if they come to Tur- 
key to help Aunt Gertrude. Again, how your 
letter takes me home ! If I dared I would con- 
fess to an attack of homesickness over each let- 
ter. I don’t realize that I am in Turkey until 
mail-time. This morning I ran to my room with 
my letters, and Aleuka followed me. She 
dreamed that I received thirty letters last night ; 
so when the mail came she was almost as much 
excited about it as I. Then we sat down and 
had a real feast, I reading aloud, and she look- 
ing at and admiring the photographs. About 
Lou’s picture she said, ‘ Is n’t she splendid ? 
How good she looks ! ’ She understands ordinary 
English very well indeed. I think you would 
not think her a foreigner from hearing her 
speak. She is in much better health now ; the 
doctor, a German, thinks that he can entirely 
cure her. Do be thankful for me that I have 
such a friend as Aleuka. I call her my dear 
child ; the other girls are my girls. I love her 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 301 

as David loved Jonathan — as my own soul ; 
not entirely for her own sake, but because of 
her relation to the work. She is invaluable, is 
in perfect sympathy with us, and has excellent 
judgment. If we are in doubt we go to Aleuka 
for advice, and are always safe in following it. 
She has been in the school since its commence- 
ment and can fully appreciate the situation. She 
understands us and also the natives. 

“ I am so glad of the pictures ; do send me a 
photograph of the new Parsonage ; I would like 
to have a picture of every room in it. You 
can’t imagine what the pictures are to me. 
Theodore looks very grave ; I do believe that 
his silver threads are becoming thicker. He 
may grow old with work, but not with worry. 
I often sigh for faith like his. 

“ Miss Bayard is lying on the lounge with a 
chill ; we have been hoping that the fever was 
leaving her, but we have to hope against hope, 
for she will be better for a few days and then 
worse again. It is a great trial to her to be 
sick, so far from home and with so much work 
to be done. I love her more and more. I tell 
her that my Geneva friends will pray for her 


362 


RUE'S HELPS. 


and she smiles and closes her eyes. She sends 
her love to Miss Ranley, and thanks unbounded 
for her letters, asks Julia Nevers to write again, 
and says they will never know how good it is to 
be comforted in a strange land. Oh, you good 
people that stay at home, what do you know 
about waiting for the mail ? 

“I am very glad to have you ask questions. 
Tell Mrs. Hatch that as soon as I have leisure I 
will describe everything she inquires about. I 
think that I wrote a description of our house 
and my room to some one, but have forgotten 
whom. 

“ All houses here are surrounded with stone 
walls plastered over with mud. The gate that 
is on the street opens into an outer yard, which 
contains a building which is used for horse- 
stable and carriage-house, and has three rooms 
done off for pantry, kitchen, and sleeping-room. 
The cook and four of the girls sleep there. The 
yard also has wood-houses, and a wash house for 
the girls. A door from this yard opens into 
ours. Our yard has a pleasant little grass plat 
and a fountain of pure water that comes from 
the mountains. It has a nice little garden plat 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 363 

at the end of the house farthest from the road. 
The house does not front the street, but stands 
at one side of the lot and fronts the opposite 
wall. These walls are fifteen or twenty feet 
high, so we are shut out from our neighbors, 
which is rather a pleasant thing for us. I am 
glad that the street is not in view. That part 
of the house nearest the road has the school- 
room above, and the girls’ sleeping-room below. 
Eight girls occupy that room now and four sleep 
in the school-room. They take up their beds 
every morning, and put them in closets during 
the day : that is the practice of the natives. 
The school-room opens into a small hall that 
leads into my room. My room has four win- 
dows on the front side curtained with white 
that are made pretty with green tassels. Out of 
these windows I get a pretty good view of hills 
and mountains. 

“ Aleuka occupies the room with me ; she has 
a bed on the lounge, which is covered with red 
and white calico, and stands before the windows. 
The floor has a green and white carpet on it. A 
black-walnut bureau, washstand, bedstead, and 
bookcase, with a stove, like the one that used to 


364 


RUE’S HELPS . 


be in the Parsonage sitting-room, make up the 
furniture of the room. It is quite pleasant, 
although very low between joints. Another 
door opens into the hall that leads down stairs 
into Mrs. Peer’s part of the house. Mr. Peer’s 
study is opposite my room. His is a very pleas- 
ant room indeed, has eight windows, that com- 
mand a splendid view of the mountains and 
scenery around the city. 

“ They had a good many flowers last year. 
When we have our new school-house, we shall 
have a garden, I hope. I want it to be as much 
like the Parsonage garden as possible. Do 
send me a leaf of something from Geneva, I 
will put it in my Bible and kiss it every day. 
We have some flowers here that I never saw in 
America. 

“ Mrs. Peer is a very pleasant hostess, and 
nice cook. We have much the same food as we 
have at home, though we often miss good butter, 
and nice flour, and yet these things can gen- 
erally be obtained. In the summer we have 
all kinds of fruits. Some of the fruits are of 
inferior quality. Our food is good enough, but 
we would enjoy it better had we better appe- 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 


865 


tites. We suffer most from the strangeness, 
especially when not well. The natives have 
a name for lassitude, and seem to consider it a 
kind of disease. 

“ I like my horse very much indeed. I will 
send the children a picture of him some day ; I 
call him Kato. 

“ My pictures were taken before I left Constan- 
tinople by a famous artist. If he had only been 
famous enough to make them speak to you ! 

“ Thank Sophie Johns for her dollar. I will 
write her how I spend it.” 

Under date of Jan. 10, Wednesday evening, 
Rue read: “ Our prayer-meeting this evening was 
very interesting, indeed. Quite a number of re- 
quests for prayers for friends were handed in, 
and a good many earnest desires went up to the 
throne of all grace. Oh, do you know how 
sweet it is to know that Jesus is everywhere, 
here in Samokov, as truly as with you in 
Geneva. 

“My trials are peculiar and new. Some of 
them seem to me very hard to bear, because 
they seem to arise from a want of that secret 
power that belongs to a true Christian life. I 


366 


RUE'S HELPS. 


especially desire a sanctified tongue, so that I 
shall not dishonor Christ by my words. The 
spirit of persecution has not been quelled here. 
To-day our school girls went to one of our Prot- 
estant friends to hold a prayer-meeting, and on 
their way home were attacked by the school-boys 
and some of them were very much frightened. 
The boys screamed and threw stones and snow 
at them and struck some of the girls with their 
hands, while the three men teachers stood and 
looked on without an effort to stop the boys. 
The gentlemen will see the teachers and try to 
persuade them to promise better conduct from 
their pupils in future. Later, Mr. Peer visited 
the superintendent of the schools, and he went 
to the school and saw the boys whipped, thirty 
in number. We shall go again into the same 
part of the town to hold a prayer-meeting, 
to-day.” 

Under date of July 23, Mrs. Willever wrote : 
“ We are having intensely hot weather, and I 
am too shiftless to do anything. I rise late 
and retire early, look after the man and the 
girls, sew a little, walk or ride sometimes, read a 
little, and go to bed as soon as it is dark. This 


GENEVA AND S A MONO V. 307 

kind of resting is new to me. I ought to go off 
on a tour, but cannot get up life enough to 
start ; we have a little more than a month longer 
of vacation. Wouldn’t the kind friends in Ge- 
neva like to have me spend vacation with them ! 
Last Monday I took a long ride with Mr. Peer. 
We started to climb a mountain which I have 
been wishing to scale ; from its top we can get 
a splendid view of the mountains, three ranges 
of them, and a good view of the gorge between 
them ; but it is a long way to climb, and we do 
not often have time to go so far. We started 
two or three hours before sunset and enjoyed 
the ascent very much. The herds and herds- 
men looked as tiny as toys; the setting sun 
made everything so beautiful. I wonder if you 
will ever see the sun set in Turkey ! I remem- 
bered our sunsets from the windows of the 
Parsonage, but I did not run home to Geneva, 
I ran up, up — if all were so beautiful midway, 
what would it be on the top ? When we were 
almost at the summit we stopped to fix my 
bridle; we were surrounded by underbrush, 
very thick ; indeed, the whole hill-side was cov- 
ered with it, with once in a while an open place. 


368 


RUE’S HELPS : 


We were following a very narrow path; Mr. 
Peer not thinking that his horse would move 
in such a place, let go his bridle to attend to 
mine, but when he undertook to catch his 
horse, away he went, down the hill upon the 
run. After much effort, he finally caught him, 
about half-way down the hill, but it was too late 
to return, so we had to come home without 
accomplishing the feat of climbing to the top. 
I wish that you could have seen my horse, how 
he pranced and neighed when his mate rushed 
down the hill : it was all I could do to keep 
him from following after, as Jill did, in the 
rhyme of ‘Jack and Jill.’ He’s real gentle 
though, and I was not afraid of him. Tell Lou 
that she must learn to ride when papa buys 
another horse. Every kind of knowledge comes 
in play in missionary life. 

‘‘ Native land ! Do you know what the words 
mean? In the only English sermons that we 
hear, Mr. Locke spoke of our native land ; it 
was with a great effort that I restrained a flood 
of tears. You do not know anything about the 
American flag until you see it waving in a for- 
eign land. We have the same Sunday-school 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 


869 


lessons that you have. I like to think that I 
am teaching my girls the same lessons that you 
are teaching your boys. 

“ The pastor has been waiting in suspense 
almost a year in Samokov for the recovery of his 
wife’s health, that they might go to their parish 
in Bonsko, and still she is no better. Poverty, 
sickness, lack of sympathy, misunderstandings, 
have tried his faith to the utmost. It is won- 
derful — no, your pastor would not let me say 
that — it is through help from God that he 
rallies after new trials and stands forth before 
his people stronger than ever. 

“ Is this the dark side of missionary life ? I 
want Lou to see both sides ; I want all Geneva 
to see both sides : I am not afraid of the dark. 
My heart has been plunged into sadness by the 
loss of one of our sweetest girls to the mission- 
ary work, and we greatly fear for her spiritual 
life in the position in which she is now placed. 
Marika had been in this school two years, and 
was developing a beautiful Christian character. 
She was sweet and sensible and quite pretty. 
Her father and mother have attended service, 
but are not Christians ; but she has an uncle 


24 


370 


RUE'S HELPS. 


who is a very earnest Christian. He supported 
her in the school, and her friends in the school 
have been full of hope that she would become 
a bright light in her village. A young man 
who has been in the mission school fell in love 
with her — human nature abounds in Samokov 
as well as in Geneva — and, as he pretended to 
be a very good Protestant, he gained her respect, 
then went to her parents and asked her for his 
wife. As he has some property — human nature 
abounds in Samokov as well as in Geneva — 
they thought it an excellent thing for her, 
and readily promised. Marika, thinking that it 
might be the will of the Lord, consented on 
condition that she might be allowed to remain 
in school, and not marry for several years, as she 
is very young. He consented, and she went 
home for a visit, expecting, of course, to return 
to us. As soon as she was at home she was in 
his power, as there is but one Protestant family 
in the place, — the bookseller, — and he was 
very sick. The young man told Marika that 
she was too fanatical, and tried to allure her 
away from her faith in Christ. We were hoping 
that she would understand him and escape his 


GENEVA AND S A MO NOV. 371 

clutches, but when the pastor visited the village 
he was not allowed to have any conversation 
with her, and the young man, that he might be 
sure of her, took her to his own home and kept 
her there. Yesterday we heard that she was 
married. We have no doubt that she was com- 
pelled to marry against her will ; I know that 
she would rather come back to us. Not unfre- 
quently here parents compel their daughters to 
marry ; the poor, weeping girl will be dragged 
to the church, and, in spite of all resistance, 
married. What would our Geneva girls think 
of that ? I wonder if they are thankful enough 
that they are Christian girls in Christian homes ? 
Girls of Geneva, if you want to learn that it is 
Christ who has made your happy homes, come 
to Marika’s village. It must have been a great 
trial to her to have been married by one of the 
miserable priests in whom she has not the least 
confidence. I fear that she will pine away and 
die.' It seems very strange to me that this was 
permitted ; still, I do know that God is able to 
overrule all things and bring good out of evil. 
We all prayed so much for her deliverance, — 
our answer will come some time. 


372 


RUE’S HELPS. 


“ I expect to go away next week on a tour ; 
then I shall have many things to tell you about. 
The carpenters are at work upon the school- 
room ; we expect to find it all we desire upon 
our return.” 

Under another summer date Rue read one 
Tuesday afternoon : “ I have just had a delight- 
ful time with my eleven little girls, all under 
twelve years of age. They come to me Sunday 
afternoons. I have translated some little stories 
for them, and I talk to them. To-day we had 
singing and prayer and some very pretty stories ; 
they enjoyed it all very much. If I had time 
I would like to write you a description of each 
one of them, so that you could understand how 
to help me to pray for them. My dear little 
girls, I have found you at last ! Four of them 
are full-pay scholars from Velis, a large city in 
Macedonia, where there are no Protestants. 
Two of them, Tassa and Kalerinka, have been 
here a year and are developing hopefully. When 
they came — little girls only eleven years old — 
they said, 4 We have come to study, but we shall 
not change our faith.’ Now there are none 
more interested in our religious exercises than 


GENEVA AND SAMONOV. 


373 


they, and the mother of one of them has writ- 
ten that she has commenced to study the Bible 
for herself. The others are from different vil- 
lages, except the daughter of one of our help- 
ers and the child of our matron. She is not a 
good little girl, but I hope her mother will have 
wisdom to control her. The mother will grad- 
uate this summer and then go back to her Bible 
work in Yambool. Last evening one of my 
dear girls came to me for help. She said, ‘ I 
feel that God’s Spirit is at work in my heart, 
that he is showing me that I need a deeper 
work of grace. For days I have been in the 
midst of the waves, and I felt that I must come 
to you, that only you could help me and show 
me the way. What must I do ? I do want to 
be a more faithful, earnest Christian ! I cannot 
tell how thankful I was for this token of the 
Spirit’s presence ; I had just come from our 
little Sunday evening meeting, feeling quite sad 
and longing for some sign of the Spirit’s pres- 
ence. So pray for this dear child. She will 
become a very useful Christian. Evening 
before last Miss Sayre and I went out to ride in 
company with Mr. Hays. It was a beautiful 


374 


RUE'S HELPS. 


evening, and we rode upon the side of the 
mountain to view the sun setting. Mr. Hays 
alighted many times to pick flowers, with which 
the plain was literally covered. The variety and 
beauty of the flowers is really wonderful. Miss 
Sayre is a good botanist, and we have done 
some analyzing together. She wishes to take 
home specimens of the flora of this country. 
I mean to take some time for this study : it 
will be such a source of refreshment and a 
means of good. Oh, I was telling you about 
our ride. As we were coming down the hill 
Mr. Hays went a little out of the path in search 
of flowers, and, in stepping down on the side of 
a small gorge, his horse made a misstep, and, 
falling down, rolled into the gully and lay there, 
with his head down, on his back. This position 
looked quite desperate, as he could not possibly 
get up while lying thus. Mr. Hays of course 
could not help him much alone, but I got off 
my horse and took hold of the rein, pulling up 
his head while Mr. Hays tugged away at his 
shoulders ; at last we pulled him around, so that 
by a desperate plunge, in which he threw me 
down and came near hurting Mr. Hays, he got 


GENEVA AND SAMOKOV. 


375 


up on his feet. After we got home Mrs. Hays 
laughed heartily at the ludicrous picture that 
we must have made. We were all so thankful 
that we were not injured. Before we got home 
that night I got into a bog ; bogs are very com- 
mon on the plain ; they are covered with grass, 
and it is difficult to discern them. Horses are 
very much afraid of them, and cannot be coaxed 
to venture near them a second time. 

“ My salary is three hundred and fifty-six dol- 
lars per annum. I don’t find much space for 
luxuries. No one can come to Turkey to teach 
if they are in search of an easy life. If it were 
not for the homesickness — but Lord, thou hast 
been our home in all generations ! My home is 
where he wills me to be. This letter is n’t 
much to ‘edification,’ as my good brother would 
say. Tell him that I am too tired to be edi- 
fying : all I need and want is to be edified. I 
cannot tell you how great the burden of heart 
is that rests upon me just now. Have just heard 
of the engagement of one of our dear girls, who 
started out to work for the Lord, but has been 
entrapped by the way and become engaged to a 
teacher who is a great enemy to the cross of 


376 


RUE’S HELPS. 


Christ. He has undoubtedly deceived her with 
promises to become a Christian without the 
slightest intention of doing so. I am appalled 
at times at the power these people have to 
appear perfectly in earnest, when deep down in 
their hearts they have no sincerity at all. 
Eleuka is the name of the girl. There seemed 
to be no more earnest, faithful, Christian girl in 
the school. She had been with us but a year ; 
but we had so much confidence in her that she 
was received into the church a short time since. 
I would much rather know that she was in her 
grave than married to that man. I had not 
thought of such a snare being laid for her. I 
had prayed with her daily for some time before 
the term closed, asking that she might have 
grace and strength sufficient for the work that 
God had called her to do in the wicked city of 
Velis. What about the answer to our prayers? 
I don’t see how they can be answered if she 
marry that man. No, I don’t see ; but God 
sees, Theodore would tell me. Very many 
Protestant girls have thus married, and not one 
of them has been able to stand for Christ. God 
cares, God cares, God does care, I say to myself, 


GENEVA AND SAMOKO V. 377 

but oh ! I am so much disappointed. Speak of 
her in your dear Tuesday afternoon meetings, 
and ask the ladies all to pray for her. 

“ There ’s one thing that troubles me ; I am 
ready always to talk to the girls, but I am not 
ready to give the Lord my Bulgarian tongue in 
general meetings. They all tell me that I have 
such a talent for language, and that my progress 
is remarkable, — most remarkable, some say. 
Theodore used to say that I could learn to 
speak any language ; but it is so hard, and I am 
so afraid of making mistakes, — and then there 
are so many others to speak. I don’t want to 
keep back anything, but I tried to pray once and 
was so frightened that I could not express my- 
self. Do pray for me about this. And think of 
it when it is hard for you to pray in your little 
meetings where you can speak in your own 
familiar words. Your work in Geneva is as 
plain to you as mine is to me here in Samokov. 
God has called you to stay there as plainly as 
he has called me to come here. Some day I am 
coming home for vacation. Oh, how I could 
rest in Geneva ! ” 


XII. 


HOME. 

The winter passed away. Rue looked back 
upon it as the happiest time that she had ever 
lived. And spring came, and summer and au- 
tumn and another winter, as other springs and 
summers and autumns and winters will come 
when the first have passed away. There was 
no new happening in Rue’s life. The old days 
and nights, the old, restful, busy days and 
nights, came again and again. Grace came and 
went, the children came and went, and another 
winter settled down upon the farm-house. Time 
had brought few changes within or without. 
Her mother’s hair was growing whiter, her 
father’s voice was not quite so strong as it 
used to be. The white horse had died and a 
brown one had taken his place, the barn had 
been shingled, the front fence had been painted, 
a new sill had been put under the wood-house, 
Rue and her mother had sewed rags enough to 


HOME. 


379 


make a rag-carpet for the dining-room, there 
were fresh, white holland shades in the parlor 
and a new carpet upon the stairs, there were 
two new steps leading from the kitchen to the 
buttery, and her father had made a new roller 
for the kitchen towel. 

At a glance, these were all the changes that 
Rue could count. She counted them one even- 
ing for Mr. Ireton. He looked grave, then 
he smiled and said that she had not counted 
any change within herself or in him. 

“ I don’t want you to change,” she said 
quickly. “I wouldn’t change anything in you, 
not even those white hairs that are coming 
so fast.” 

“ Then I may count a change in you,” he 
said ; “ for once, you were not satisfied with 
me, — don’t you remember when you loved 
the children better than any one else in the 
world?” 

“ Their companionship satisfied me then,” she 
answered slowly. “I had to grow, oh, how I 
had to grow! before I could outgrow being 
satisfied with them.” 

How the knowledge came to her she could 


380 


RUE'S HELPS. 


not tell ; when it came to her she could not 
tell. It was almost spring before she knew it ; 
and then she told herself and was not startled at 
the knowledge, or the acknowledging it. She 
was awed, she was humbled, because she was not 
strong or good, and yet it had been given to 
her. It was not a remarkable thing in any wise, 
not remarkable that God, who had brought two 
people together, should give them love to each 
other : perhaps, knowing the need that each had 
of the other, it would have been remarkable, if 
God, who is so rich in supplying our needs, had 
not given them love to each other. 

One day — a day like all the other days — the 
bread was burned that day, and the boy brought 
in mud upon his boots — she knew, she told 
herself — she was mending her father’s mittens 
just then — that she loved Mr. Ireton, her long- 
time friend and pastor, better than she loved 
father, mother, or sister, better than she had 
ever loved the children, better than she had 
loved Auntie or Paul, better than any one on 
earth, better than any one in heaven, save God 
in Jesus Christ. She acknowledged it to her- 
self thus solemnly. 


HOME. 


381 ' 


She could not open the Bible in these first 
days, she could not bear a word, even from the 
Lord ; she kept close to him in the wonderful 
silence. “ He knows, and I know,” she thought. 
She was glad that Mr. Ireton was away; he 
had gone to spend a week with the children ; 
she did not fear that she might reveal it to him ; 
about that she had no care. She knew, but she 
could not tell how she knew, that he had loved 
her for a long time. She knew now that he 
had loved her that rainy day that he came to 
tell her about her boys. Had he been waiting 
all this time for her soul to grow ? She recalled 
something that he had said to her once. Loving 
him was next to the happiness of loving Jesus 
Christ. It was next to the happiness of loving 
Jesus Christ, because he was like Jesus Christ ; 
like him as a disciple can be like his Lord. He 
was gentle, pure-hearted, just, single-minded, 
seeking the will of God in all things, loving 
good and hating evil, living for others, sacrific- 
ing himself — and he loved her. Had he come 
down to her, this man who was in college the 
day she was born, or had she grown up to him ? 
They were together, that was enough: it was 


882 


RUE'S HELPS. 


enough for her ; she was sure that it was enough 
for him. They had each laid their hearts in 
the hand of the Lord, and he had given them 
to each other. 

“ I could not love him so if he did not love 
Jesus Christ,” she said to herself. “ I feel 
nearer to Jesus Christ with him than I do with 
any one else.” 

In that troubled time — how long ago it was! 
— before the children went away she had be- 
lieved that God had not come to her in father, 
or mother, or brother, or sister ; now she had 
learned that he might come in another relation- 
ship. She had found it in Paul’s words, “ The 
husband is the head of the wife even as Christ 
is the head of the church.” 

Even as: even with the same loving-kindness, 
the same trustworthiness, the same long-pa- 
tience, the same forgiveness, the same tender- 
ness ; the husband who was the head of the wife, 
as Christ is head of the church, was the one for 
her to believe in and not be afraid of; might 
she not find in him the heart of Christ that she 
had missed in father and mother ? Some did 
find it in father or mother, — did not God choose 


HOME. 


383 


the way for each one to find it ? Did any of his 
children wholly miss it ? They conld not miss it 
if they asked him for it. Paul had found it in 
his father’s heart in those last days on the wreck 
together. He had missed it and longed for it ; 
perhaps Grace had not missed it or longed for it 
yet. She had not mourned ; therefore her time 
had not yet come to be comforted. Persis and 
Lou had found the father-heart of God in their 
father before they had found it in God himself. 
She had found it in God first ; she was glad 
that she had found it in God first. He had led her 
by a way that she knew not ; but he had known 
it, and led her, step by step, all along his way. 
Her way was better than Paul’s way would have 
been for her, or the children’s way. She had 
been fitted for the way, and the way had been 
fitted for her. It had been God’s way, and yet 
she had taken it herself. She liked to think 
that her choices in life were of God’s choosing 
and yet that she had chosen them herself. Her 
life was like the white stone: something was 
written in it that no one could know but her- 
self. Some day she would tell Mr. Ireton about 
her prayer that day before the fire on the hearth, 


384 


RUE'S HELPS . 


that day that she was such a tired little house- 
keeper. 

W ith this new knowledge in her heart and in 
her face it was a little hard to meet Mr. Ireton ; 
he came by the stage Saturday night and 
stopped but for a few moments to deliver mes*- 
sages and packages from the children and to say 
that Aunt Gertrude had written to them that she 
was coming home in vacation. 

44 1 have a bit of news,” he said, as Rue stood 
with him at the parlor table in the dusky light 
undoing a package of books ; 44 the Parsonage 
is to be rebuilt this summer and the children are 
coming home to stay. They say that they can- 
not live if I do not let them come home. Will 
you come home too, Rue ? ” 

Rue looked up into his eyes, then down at 
the knot in the pink cord. 

44 Will you come home too, Rue ? ” 

She broke the cord and took out a book. 
44 God gives us some things to give away and 
some things to keep ; my children I may have 
to give away, but I think that God has given 
you to me to keep. Do you think so, too ? God 
has been a long time in giving you to me. And 


HOME. 


385 


more than once I decided never to say this to 
you ; more than once we came pretty near miss- 
ing it.” 

“We couldn’t,” said Rue; “not really, 
God would n’t let us.” 

And so she was the answer to somebody’s 
prayer, not by making haste, but by waiting; 
and she was the answer to her own prayer, not 
by making haste, but by waiting. She never 
founded a school like Mary Lyon, she never 
became a noted physician and wrote learned 
articles like Mary Putnam Jacobi, she never 
discovered a star like Herschel’s sister, she 
never wrote poems like Alice Cary, she never 
helped a great man to be great, for Mr. Ireton 
was only great as every good man is great, and 
if she were in any degree like good and wise 
Priscilla it was in very humble fashion, — there 
was only one thing all her life that she was sure 
of — she was a rest to her husband. All her 
employment and enjoyment she found in her 
husband’s small parish, — Rue’s parish, Grace 
had once called it, because she loved the children 
so much, and she had been chosen for this help- 
fulness and happiness, not for any gift or grace 


25 


386 


RUE'S HELPS. 


that she had made within herself, but because — 
as she had marked it in her Bible on that weari- 
some day — “Jesus had compassion.” God has 
taken her at her word, and is using her in his 
service. While I write she is making the most 
of herself and the best of herself, and the Lord 
is perfecting that which concerneth her. 


University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 




















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